It's Probably Me
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: REVISED. A misunderstanding leaves both Autor and Fakir deeply hurt. Before it can be resolved, a gang with connections to Fakir's deceased father appears and forces Fakir to go with them. Autor and Ahiru must pursue them across Germany to save Fakir.
1. Rumors

**Princess Tutu**

**It's Probably Me**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**VERY IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ: This is an overhauled version of the chapter one you may have previously read. Please examine it and see if it's any better than the original. My intention was never to craft generic angst for this story, and I am sorry if it was taken as such. While I still don't believe Fakir was out of character judging solely by anime canon, I do feel that he likely was by my timeline. In addition, I was struggling with some other elements of the chapter. It is my hope that this new version, put together with suggestions and help from Lisa, Ladyamberjo, Northeastwind, and Why A Duck will more accurately depict what I wanted to tell.**

**Other Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! I started writing a very random hurt/comfort blurb the other day, and somehow it mushroomed into me thinking of an intricate backstory for how things had got to that point and what would happen afterwards. It's been a while since I've done much with Fakir and Autor's friendship, so this fic will largely explore that. But there will still be a great deal of Autor and Ahiru squee as well. The title comes from the song by Sting and Eric Clapton, which reminds me a great deal of Fakir and Autor.**

**Chapter One**

Rumors flying around Kinkan were nothing new. It was a small town, prone to gossip. People talked of the latest kinds of pizza being served at the pizza parlor, the new fashions available in the shops, and everything happening in the personal lives of the people who worked at both places and everywhere else.

Even rumors about the nature of Ahiru's relationship with Autor were usual. In spite of Ahiru's general, sweet nature, and her and Autor's insistence that they were friends, some people still wondered if she was in love with him in addition to, or instead of, Fakir.

But it was not usual for the rumors to consist of students swearing that they had seen Autor and Ahiru together in the jewelry shop. And when Lilie produced a photograph that she had taken earlier that very day ("They went off during the lunch hour!" she declared. "How scandalous!"), it sealed the disaster. Within an hour of afternoon classes' end, the picture circulated throughout the campus and found its way to an astonished Fakir.

At first he clenched his teeth and steadfastly tried not to think the worst. There was surely a rational explanation. Ahiru would not betray him like that. And he did not think Autor would, either. They were a team, a family.

But Autor had teased him on the subject once or twice in the past. He had then sobered and said that he did not love Ahiru that way.

He had certainly not been teasing when he had told Fakir his observations about Ahiru._ "While it's true that Ahiru certainly doesn't have the grace or the allure of someone such as Rue, she has a unique charm all her own," _he had said then._ "She is beautiful. You recognize that, Fakir. There's no reason someone else couldn't as well."_

Fakir had wondered if Autor was trying to tell him something by saying that. Autor had teased him at that point about now being concerned. Fakir had just let it go; Autor had sounded sincere when he had continued,_ "No, I'm not trying to tell you something, at least not if we're using 'something' as a codeword for 'I have fallen hopelessly in love with the girl you hope to marry someday.'"_

Still . . . could he really be trusted? What if he had really felt that way about Ahiru even while he had teased? Or what if he had found it had happened later even though he had not intended it?

Why would they be in a jewelry store? Jewelry was not something one usually bought for someone who was just a friend.

Fakir slumped down in a chair, staring at the picture. He was letting his imagination run away with him. Autor was trustworthy. Unless Fakir had deceived himself by feeling at ease.

What should he do now? He could ask Autor about it, but that would make it obvious that he was having doubts. And if there was an innocent explanation, Autor might feel betrayed or hurt by the lack of trust. The same thing would go if Fakir asked Ahiru.

He swore under his breath, a hand flying to the bridge of his nose. Either he asked or he tried to put it behind him and decide it was nothing. Once the rumors reached Ahiru and Autor, surely they would try to rectify the mess, at least to him.

"_Hmph._ You seem to be in a quandary."

He looked up with a start. Autor was standing near him at the table, his arms crossed. Somehow he had entered the student lounge without Fakir even realizing.

Quickly Fakir stuffed the picture into his pocket. "What do you know about it?" he retorted.

Autor frowned. "Not a thing," he said. He uncrossed his arms. "Not only are you in a quandary, but you're in a typical ill mood."

Fakir grunted and stood. "And I'm late," he said abruptly. "See you later."

Autor was left staring after him.

Ahiru was about to enter as Fakir was storming out. She stepped back, blinking in confusion at his stormcloud expression. "Fakir? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he growled. "Let's go."

Ahiru gaped at him, then pouted. "What's with that attitude?" she said.

Fakir did not offer a reply.

xxxx

Fakir remained unsociable for the rest of the afternoon and evening, barely saying a word through dinner and taking a long walk before bed. His mood did not improve by morning. Ahiru and Autor were bewildered and confused. Not only that, the whispers among the other students at school that day, which stopped as soon as Ahiru or Autor entered a room, were becoming uncomfortable and annoying.

Autor caught Ahiru before the start of afternoon classes. "Something strange is going on," he said. "Do you have the feeling that we're the last ones to know whatever it is?"

"Yeah!" Ahiru nodded. "Do you think Fakir knows about it?"

"I don't know," Autor frowned. "Haven't those girls told you anything yet?"

"No. . . ." Ahiru flushed, looking down. "I was so late that they didn't have any chance to talk to me and I had to stay and clean. . . ." She looked up again with a start. "But they acted like they had something to tell me! I'm going to make sure I find out what it is!" She clenched a fist in determination.

"And I'm sure they'll tell you," Autor said. "Unlike Fakir."

Ahiru scowled. "I don't know what he's so mad about," she said. "If he knows what's going on, he should tell us!"

Autor looked annoyed. "I intend to confront him about it if he's still pushing us away after school," he said.

"Good!" Ahiru said with a swift nod. "Me too!"

The afternoon bells began to ring. Autor glanced towards the main building with a start.

"I'll see you after classes," he said.

Ahiru hurried to run towards the ballet building. "Okay! Bye, Autor!" She waved over her shoulder, glancing back just briefly before turning her attention to the sidewalk.

Autor observed her flight for a short moment, then hastened to the main building. He was known for being punctual. He was not going to let that reputation change now.

Once again the students were whispering when he opened the classroom door. They looked up seemingly with one accord and then froze, resembling a herd of deer caught in the headlights.

Autor glowered at the lot of them. "Obviously there's something you don't want me to know," he said. "And I'm guessing it has to do with me. I don't appreciate either your hushed voices or your silence."

One of the girls smirked at him as she laced her fingers on one of the desks built for up to three people. "Really, Mr. Autor? You don't know?" she said, her tone mocking. "I thought you knew everything."

Another girl at the same desk nodded. "And after the way you've been carrying on with the wonderful Fakir's girl, don't you think you should have some shame? He's trusted you all this time!"

In a moment Autor was at the desk, slamming his hands upon it. "What have I been doing with Ahiru?" he demanded. He knew about the rumors of course; they were almost always circulating. But from what this girl was saying, it was more serious now than before.

She started at his actions. Under his determined, penetrating gaze, she shrank back in a bit of disconcertion. "Why, taking her to the jewelry store," she said.

The first girl nodded. "It's gone around everywhere by now," she said. "One of Ahiru's friends got a picture of the two of you. Actually, I think the wonderful Fakir has it now."

Autor's eyes widened. "So that's it then," he said, mostly to himself as he straightened. Fakir had the picture and probably wondered what to make of it. But why hadn't he said anything about it?

A confused frown crossed Autor's features as he walked to the desk at which he alone sat. There was no time to think further on the subject; the teacher was coming in. However, he vowed, he would have to speak with Fakir as soon as possible. By now Ahiru likely also knew what was going on and was stunned. He would have to talk with her as well. After all, he had promised to keep quiet about the reason for the shopping trip. He wanted to both keep his word and try to set things right with Fakir.

xxxx

For good or ill, after school Autor ran into Fakir before he had a chance to find Ahiru. And judging from the surprised and then hard look he received, Fakir was not in any better of a mood than earlier.

Autor adjusted his glasses. "That's a fine greeting," he said.

"I don't have anything to say to you," Fakir said. He moved to the side, trying to walk around Autor and get away.

Autor caught hold of his arm. "Just a minute, Fakir." He narrowed his eyes. "I think I know what this is about. You have a photograph taken by one of Ahiru's 'friends', don't you."

Fakir stiffened. "Yeah," he admitted. He pulled his arm free. "I wondered how long it was going to be before you and Ahiru heard what people have been saying."

"It seems they come up with something new every day," Autor sniffed. "And this is every bit as asinine as all the other stories."

Fakir reached into his jacket and pulled out the snapshot. "You can't deny you were there with her," he said, holding it in front of Autor.

The other boy took it. "No, I can't," he said. "And I won't." He glanced at the picture for a small moment before lowering his hand. "But that doesn't mean there isn't a logical explanation."

"Like what?" Fakir turned to fully face him, his tone and his expression both showing that his patience was nearing an end.

Autor's lip curled. "Something different from what everyone is saying. Unfortunately I'm not at liberty to say what it is. Why don't you ask Ahiru?" he said.

"Because I'm asking you!" Fakir retorted. "Don't you have anything to say about this?"

The late afternoon sunlight reflected off of Autor's glasses, making it impossible to see his eyes.

"No, I don't," he said. "Except that I hope you haven't bought into the rumors."

"I don't know what to think," Fakir said. "I haven't wanted to believe them. I've trusted you and Ahiru to not betray me!"

"Then trust us a little longer," Autor said. "In light of all this, I'm sure Ahiru will explain things to you. Why don't we go look for her?"

"I'm tired of airing our problems in public," Fakir snapped. "Why don't you go home and I'll find you later and bring Ahiru?"

"I'm agreeable to that," Autor said. He stepped away. "I'll be expecting you within an hour."

But no matter how Fakir looked among the departing students, Ahiru could not be found. That was not helping his already-strained nerves. The last couple of days had been torture enough; he did not need another problem added.

At last in frustration he threw up his hands and left the school grounds. Maybe Ahiru had missed them in the confusion and had gone home. Or maybe even to Autor's. Maybe she wanted to talk to him about what was going on, if she had also found out what was being talked about. Fakir decided to try there first.

Why would Ahiru tell Autor not to talk about the reason they had been in the jewelry store? That was weird. Why was it something that Fakir could not have simply been told from the start?

Maybe it was just one of Ahiru's moods and she had felt embarrassed or awkward? But that still prompted the question of why wouldn't she feel comfortable talking with Fakir about it. Why had she gone to Autor instead? Usually she talked to both of them about a problem, unless it involved one or the other of them.

Had he done something that had made Ahiru feel like she couldn't tell him? What could that have been? He deserved to know, so he could try to fix it!

By the time he arrived at Autor's house his bad mood had gone steadily downhill and did not seem about to stop. He rapped sharply on the door, then stepped back to wait for Autor.

In a moment the door was opened. Autor took in the sight, frowning in surprise. "Where's Ahiru?" he asked.

"You don't know?" Fakir retorted. "I thought she'd come here ahead of me."

"She did not." Autor opened the door wider. "Fakir, since she isn't here and if she isn't at school, maybe she's gone home."

"Maybe," Fakir said noncommittally, "but I thought maybe she'd want to talk to you about the rumors, if she's heard about them too. After all, she doesn't want to tell me anything."

"What are you talking about?" Autor retorted.

Fakir stepped closer. "I'm talking about how it was okay for her to let you in on her jewelry store plans but it wasn't okay for her to tell me about them!" he snapped. "I thought she trusted me too."

"That is uncalled-for," Autor told him. "Trust has nothing to do with this."

"Then what does it have to do with?" Fakir shot back.

"I told Ahiru I wouldn't tell!" Autor said. "Fakir, you're being jealous without reason."

"And what makes you so sure?" Fakir retorted. "Or are you really saying this to mock me and you know all too well that there really is a reason?"

"That's preposterous!" Autor retorted. "Listen to yourself. You're not in any state to be having this conversation. What you need is to go home, have a cup of tea . . ."

He did not have a chance to finish his sentence. Fakir's eyes flashed and his nostrils flared as his patience bent and broke. He reached out, snatching Autor's scarf and pulling the other boy towards him.

"Don't tell me what I need!" he snarled. "You don't know me. And I'm sick of how well you seem to know Ahiru while I'm in the dark!"

Autor reached up, clawing at Fakir's wrist. "You're being childish! If you would just calm down and listen . . . !" he cried. He could not help the twinge of fear that crept into his voice.

Fakir had a short temper; everyone knew that. He had even struck Mytho in the past, albeit he had regretted it almost instantly. But what else would he be capable of doing to a comrade in a fit of anger, Autor wondered for a split-moment. He did not want to find out.

"Why did she tell you?" Fakir yelled now, giving Autor a rough shake. "And where is she?"

"Fakir, I don't know where she is!" Autor yelled back. "Let go of me!"

Fakir blinked, as though only now fully realizing what he was doing. But before he could release Autor Ahiru's horrified scream brought them both to attention. The boys looked up with a start. Ahiru was running over to them, her hands wildly waving.

"Fakir, what are you doing?" she wailed. "Let him go!"

Fakir searched her frantic eyes for a brief moment before turning back to Autor. At last he released the cravat, half-shoving Autor backwards as he did.

"Maybe I'm jealous, like you said," he snarled, "but I don't think it's without reason. I'm sick of your attitude. And right now, I'm not crazy about talking to you. I just wonder if you're a fair-weather friend and a traitor. I don't even know that I trust you now." With that he whirled, storming down the street.

Autor coughed, pulling his scarf further away from his neck. "Don't expect me to calmly accept this assault," he retorted, his voice cold and hard. "I've had enough of your immature and barbaric temper tantrums. And if you don't care to trust me, so be it. I'm not feeling very favorable about trusting you now, either."

Fakir paused and turned to look back at him. "That's fine with me," he said.

Ahiru looked back and forth between him and Autor, the shock and indignation in her eyes. "Fakir!" she cried. "Why are you talking to Autor like that? And why were you grabbing him? He didn't do anything wrong!"

"Of course you wouldn't think so," Fakir answered. Before he could even care to stop himself he added, "You probably didn't even get what was going on when he took you to that jewelry shop!"

Ahiru's mouth fell open. "The _jewelry shop?_" she repeated. "But Fakir, that wasn't . . ."

She trailed off as Autor coughed again. She whirled to face him, alarmed to see he had a hand to his throat. She did not see Fakir turning back and continuing to stalk away.

"Autor, are you hurt?" she wailed.

He started to shake his head but stopped, wincing at the motion. "I'm alright," he said. He sounded slightly pained. "If you don't mind, Ahiru, I'd rather be alone right now." He stepped to the door, moving to shut it.

Ahiru bit her lip. "If you're sure," she said, worried to leave him. "Maybe you need a doctor or something!"

"No!" Autor exclaimed. "I'm fine. He was holding my cravat too snug against my neck, but it wasn't enough to cause any real damage." He sighed. "Ahiru, you'd better tell him the truth. There's no point in having him angry with you as well."

Ahiru clenched her fists. "He shouldn't be mad at all!" she said. "I thought he trusted you!"

"Apparently not," Autor said. His eyes narrowed as he watched Fakir turning the rounded corner of the city wall. "And right now, I'm not in a state to accept any apology he could offer, even if it happened to be sincere." He gripped the edge of the door. "He thinks I betrayed him. By not having more faith in me than this, he has betrayed me."

Ahiru shook her head. "Don't say that!" she pleaded. "You know how Fakir gets when he's mad. He says all kinds of stuff he doesn't really mean! When I tell him the truth, he's going to feel horrible. I know he will!"

"He certainly behaved as though he meant it," Autor said. "But in any case, I meant what I said to him. Please, Ahiru. . . ." He started to close the door. "I'm sorry this happened, but it has. It will only look worse if you stay here now. Your place is with him, though I really don't know what you even see in him."

Ahiru cringed. "Autor, you don't mean that!" she said. "You know you like Fakir!"

"I did, for some reason," Autor said. "Right now, I honestly don't know any more."

Ahiru watched him shut the door the rest of the way. Just before he vanished behind the lessening crack, she was sure she caught a glimpse of the hurt in his eyes. When the key turned and the latch went down, she flinched.

"They each feel like the other did something wrong," she said aloud to the oncoming evening. "And all of this is really my fault." She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stave off the tears as she ran after Fakir.

"Fakir!" she yelled. "Fakir, wait!"

She never saw the dark forms that slipped through the shadows, following her. Nor did she see the ones ahead that were sneaking after Fakir.


	2. Trouble From the Past

**VERY IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ: Chapter 1 has been completely overhauled, so if you read the original, please familiarize yourself with the changes or things won't make sense. Not only that, some of chapter 1 is now part of chapter 2. The carryover scenes in this chapter don't have as much reworking as those in chapter 1, but there are noticeable differences. Also, there is a completely new scene to finish this installment. I will give a day or two for readers to become acquainted with the overhaul, following which I will post a chapter containing entirely new material.**

**Chapter Two**

Fakir's mood did not lighten as he walked. Maybe he had gone overboard with Autor, he thought to himself, but at this point he could not bring himself to care. He doubted Autor did, either. From what Autor had said, he was perfectly happy to have Fakir out of the way.

And Ahiru had sided with Autor, of course. Fakir really was not supposed to know whatever it was that they had gone to the jewelry store about. He probably never would.

And where had Ahiru been, anyway? She had been gone long enough to cause him to lose his temper, but then had appeared just in time to keep him from possibly hitting Autor. Not that he thought she had deliberately hid herself to watch the escalating argument. Lilie would do something like that, but not Ahiru.

He frowned. Maybe even just imagining Ahiru doing that was just as outlandish as what he had accused Autor of doing. But had he ever really believed his words to Autor, or had he just spoken in anger?

His eyes narrowed further. He did not know right now. And he was still upset enough that he did not want to try to figure it out.

The sudden voice, calling to him on the night air, made him stop short in surprise. Ahiru was coming after him? Why?

He turned, frowning as the red-haired tornado ran into view and up to him. "I thought you'd want to stay with Autor," he remarked bitterly before she could speak. "Since I'm the bad guy here."

Ahiru glared at him, her hands flying to her hips. "Just listen for a minute!" she burst out. "I was going to explain, but you stomped off before I could say anything!"

Fakir grunted. "What's to explain? And how come I couldn't find you after school?" he demanded.

"We probably missed each other," Ahiru said. "I looked all over the school for you and Autor after I finished cleaning! Then finally Malen told me she'd seen Autor leave and you'd left a long time after that. So I went looking for both of you and I found you grabbing Autor!"

Fakir crossed his arms, looking away. He was not in a mood to explain himself or to apologize.

Ahiru let out a big sigh. "Raetsel's birthday is coming up," she told him, her voice lowering as her fire faded. "I wanted to get her something really nice, but I didn't want to say anything to you because I wanted it to be a surprise for you and Raetsel both. So I went and asked Autor if he'd help me. That's why we were in the jewelry store. He was trying to help me pick out something for Raetsel! That's all it ever was!"

Fakir opened his mouth to retort but then fully processed what she had said. "What?" he croaked.

"He wasn't taking me there to give me something or to try to get me to date him or anything like that!" Ahiru said. "And going to the jewelry store was my idea, not his!"

Her shoulders slumped as the tears returned to her eyes. "But everything went so wrong," she said sorrowfully. "You're not the bad guy, Fakir; _I_ am. All of this happened because of me!" She looked away, not wanting Fakir to see her cry. But she could not conceal the hiccupping, heartbroken sob that choked from her lips.

Fakir could only stand stock still, staring at her. He was not sure he had digested all that she had said yet. His mouth was dry, his mind blank.

But then it all crashed onto him at once, crushing him under its weight.

Autor had not betrayed him.

Everything had been innocent.

Ahiru was crying. She was blaming herself.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "H-hey, stop it!" He moved closer to Ahiru. "This isn't your fault. I'm the one who . . ." He clenched his teeth. "Blew everything out of proportion," he finished.

Ahiru trembled, looking up at him with woebegone eyes. "I should have just told you," she lamented. "Fakir, I'm so sorry! I didn't know someone would see us and it would get strung all around everywhere!"

Fakir swore under his breath. "It's a rotten set-up when you can't even breathe without everyone gossiping," he said. "When I saw the picture that was taken of you and Autor I tried to rationalize it. I didn't want to ask either of you about it because I knew it would look like I didn't trust you."

Ahiru bit her lip. "So you snapped at us and avoided us instead," she said.

"Yeah," Fakir said. "And then today, after going through hours of hearing those stupid rumors, my temper just somehow got away from me. I think it was knowing that you'd told Autor and not me that did it. I figured I must have done something terrible or you would have told me too. And then Autor said he'd promised not to tell. . . ." He shook his head. "And I finally just lost it and grabbed him."

His eyes widened in dismay at the memory of his harsh words. "I pretty much told him I never wanted to see him again," he gasped. "And worse."

Ahiru sniffled, shakily trying to dry her eyes. "You didn't mean it, Fakir," she said. "I told Autor you didn't mean it and you'd feel awful when you calmed down." She reached for his wrist. "Let's go back," she pleaded. "You can talk things over and make up!"

"If he'll even listen," Fakir said, looking back the way they had come. "I wouldn't listen to him. I deserve to have the tables turned on me."

"He'll listen!" Ahiru said, tugging on his wrist. "Come on, Fakir!"

But at that moment Fakir froze. Something cold had inched out of the darkness, leaning against his temple.

"So _you're_ Ambrosius's boy," an unfamiliar voice hissed. "Glad to make your acquaintance. This meeting has been twenty years overdue, you know. It's too bad your father isn't here like he was supposed to be, but you'll do."

The very sound of the cruel man's tone was sending shivers up Ahiru's spine. She looked up in shock. A shadowy figure was pressing a gun against Fakir's head. And from the sounds of the dark laughter all around them, he had not come alone.

A cold feeling began to form in the pit of Ahiru's stomach. It was not likely now that they would get to Autor's house soon . . . or at all.

xxxx

Autor sank into the soft chair by the empty fireplace, looking at it without actually seeing it. He felt cold, but he doubted that setting the logs ablaze would bring him warmth. He _hmphed_, looking away.

And so once again friendship had proven to be a useless commodity. Fakir had no trust in him, or if he had, it had apparently evaporated because of this conflict. Fair-weather friend? Bah! Fakir was nothing more a hypocrite. If it had been a jury trial, Autor would already be condemned to his sentence.

This certainly was not the first time Fakir had lost his temper with Autor—though Autor was not sure he had ever before felt downright frightened of what Fakir might do. He only hoped his fear had not shown—or at least, that it had not been noticed. With Fakir in such a state, the last thing Autor would have wanted was to appear vulnerable.

He stood, restless as he wandered about the room and came back to where he had started. Well, perhaps he had been too harsh; friendship could not be useless, if Ahiru was still loyal to him.

But for how long?

He stiffened at the disheartening thought. Ahiru would not turn against him . . . would she? Could he really know? He had believed Fakir would not waver in his loyalty and now _this_ had happened. Yet he knew very well how Fakir got when he felt double-crossed. He himself was the same, he supposed. What bothered him was that Fakir would even feel that way.

"I thought he trusted me," he said aloud to the lonely room. "I wouldn't take Ahiru from him. And I don't even love her that way."

He hesitated as he came to the couch. What if Ahiru was right and Fakir would calm down and feel horrible when she told him the truth?

He glowered at the floor. That did not make up for Fakir's lack of trust. That bothered him more than any of the harsh words Fakir had flung at him. Autor was no stranger to rough words, and he had said angry things too, in the heat of the moment. Barbaric, indeed!

He sneered. Considering that Fakir seemed to think striking first and asking questions later was a good policy, it had been an appropriate insult.

But then he sighed, his shoulders sagging. Ahiru was likely just as upset about hearing Autor's remarks, as she had been to hear Fakir's. She loved both of them and it broke her heart to hear them fight. And she had never before encountered them fighting as they had tonight.

The pounding on his door with both fists nearly startled him out of his mind. He looked up abruptly, his glasses slipping down his nose.

"Autor! Autor, please come to the door! Autor, help!"

All thoughts of his own pain were forgotten. He hurried over, unlatching and unlocking the door before throwing it open. Ahiru was in such a panic that she almost beat her fists on his chest. Her eyes widened and she stepped back, shaking.

"What on earth is the matter?" Autor demanded, stunned and alarmed by her behavior. Was Fakir still angry? Could he have even . . . no, what was Autor thinking? Fakir would never hurt Ahiru! Autor gripped the door, his knuckles going white.

"Autor, these awful guys came out and they were all pointing guns at Fakir and me, and they said Fakir's dad used to work for them, and they forced Fakir to go with them or they'd shoot me!"

Autor stared at her. Even though he had come to learn out of necessity and habit how to process her frantic rambles, it still took a moment for this announcement to fully sink into his consciousness.

"Do you know where they're going?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Fakir went with them and I heard one of them say something about a mansion, but I didn't hear any more than that," she said. "Except that they had a long drive ahead of them." She looked at him in alarm. "They must be going out of town!"

"'A mansion' could refer to a lot of different places," Autor frowned.

"Don't you know of anywhere it might be?" Ahiru pleaded.

Autor thought for a moment. "There's a large mansion on the other side of the woods," he remembered. "But those roads aren't made for automobiles. If they're going there, either they're very foolish or maybe they have one of those all-terrain vehicles."

"Do you think they could be going there?" Ahiru asked.

"It's possible," Autor said. "No one's lived there for decades; they would be completely isolated."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "And Fakir would be in a place like that, with all those awful crooks," she moaned. "I don't know what to do! They said I couldn't call the police. They said they'd know and they'd hurt Fakir and . . ."

Autor stepped outside, pulling the door shut after him. "Let's go, then," he said.

Ahiru stopped, gaping at him. "Really?" she exclaimed. "But . . . Autor, you could get hurt too! I don't want that. I just don't know what to do and I was hoping you'd have some idea and . . ."

"I remember my parents saying that Fakir's father had a largely-unknown past," Autor told her over his shoulder. "He came to Kinkan from elsewhere and soon met and married the woman who was Fakir's mother. They thought someone had been shadowing him and perhaps chased him to Kinkan, but no one ever appeared and the rumors eventually faded and died."

He stopped near the silent fountain, frowning thoughtfully. "Perhaps Drosselmeyer didn't want them to come in because he had other plans, so he kept them out," he mused.

"And now that Kinkan is free, they came in!" Ahiru wailed, hurrying to his side. "They said something about the meeting being twenty years overdue and that they really wanted Fakir's dad, but they'd take Fakir since they couldn't have him! They said they wanted to see if Fakir had 'the gift' too. Autor, do you think they were talking about Story-Spinning?"

"Most likely," Autor said, looking to her. "Remember when we were taken prisoner by that man who wanted me to compose music for him?"

Ahiru nodded, cringing at the memories. "And he put us in the freezer," she said.

"Criminals everywhere would find great use for the Story-Spinning power," Autor said. "It sounds like Fakir's father may have possessed it as well and that's why they had him in their gang."

"But that means he would have had to have left Kinkan to meet up with them," Ahiru said. "And I thought people couldn't leave town."

"It all depended on Drosselmeyer's whims," Autor said. "Didn't you say you saw Prince Siegfried dancing at the lake?"

Again Ahiru nodded. "Yeah," she said slowly. Her eyes widened at the realization. "So even he left town sometimes!"

Autor took her arm. "And if this unfolding mystery involves Story-Spinning, we are the ones who should try to find out what's going on and rescue Fakir, if he can't save himself," he said. "The police wouldn't be much use even if it was safe to contact them. Nor would anyone else in town. The only person who might know something about Fakir's father's past is away on business."

"I guess that's true," Ahiru said, realizing he meant Charon. "But how are we even going to get there? There aren't a lot of cars in Kinkan and we're not old enough to drive and you don't like carriages and . . ."

Autor drew a shaking breath. "Walking would take too long," he said. "We'll have to take a carriage. I can rent one for a few hours and we can take another, safer path to the mansion."

Ahiru regarded him in awe. Ever since being trampled to death by runaway horses, Autor had had an acute fear of the animals. He tried to not have anything to do with them whenever possible. But with Fakir in danger Autor was willing to put all of that aside.

He glanced down at her. "Come on then," he said. "Let's go try to help him . . . whether or not he'll appreciate it."

"He'll appreciate it!" Ahiru assured him. "Oh. . . ." She looked to him, suddenly feeling guilty. "I was so worried I didn't even get to tell you—I told him everything. He feels just awful! We were going to come back here and he was going to try to talk to you and that's when those men surrounded us."

Autor was silent as they started to walk. "Perhaps," he said, "he should have simply trusted me—no, us—more to begin with."

Ahiru looked down sadly. The wounds torn open by this fiasco would not be resolved easily. She had to pray that they could be mended. She would never forgive herself if Autor and Fakir remained estranged.

xxxx

Fakir sat in an upstairs bedroom on a straight but padded chair, a gun held at the back of his head. His thoughts were churning about as fast as his stomach.

He did not even remember that much about his father. He had been so young when his parents had been killed. But he was sure that he had never known about his father's early life. The man had not seemed to want to talk about the years before he had married Fakir's mother. Whenever Fakir had asked, his father had grown serious before trying to put on a smile and finding a creative way to change the subject. It had been much the same with Fakir's mother when he had asked her.

Now he was being told that his father had been part of this gang. But it could not be true, not unless he had been an unwilling member, as they were trying to make Fakir. His father had not been a criminal! He could not have been!

"So you've got me in this place," he snarled. "Now what?"

"Impatient, aren't you?" sneered the man guarding him. "You'll find out soon enough. We just parked here at our hideout to get some supplies. Then we're moving on and you're coming with us."

"Tch. Do you really think you'll get far?" Fakir glowered at the guy. "You let Ahiru go free. She'll get help."

"She'll be too scared," was the scoffing retort. "We told her not to call the police or we'd find out and hurt you. She won't want to chance it."

"You won't hurt me," Fakir said. "Not if you really want me here."

"We don't have to blow your brains out to hurt you," the sentry smirked. "We could blow hers out, instead."

Fakir went stiff, the rage beginning to boil in his heart. "If you hurt her, I swear I'll . . ." He whirled to face his captor.

Instantly the gun was leveled between his eyes. "You won't do anything, punk." The man glared at him, then grinned in the darkness. "You're rash and impulsive, aren't you. That's why you went nuts with your buddy. Or should I say, former buddy?"

"You were watching?" Fakir cried. It had not even occurred to him that they might have been following him all the way back then. His stomach dropped. That meant they knew where Autor lived, if they decided they wanted to do something to him.

"I wonder if the girl will go to him," the guard mused. "That'd be a joke—two kids thinking they could take us on and come out alive."

The color left Fakir's face. Ahiru really might go to Autor. Charon was out of town and Ahiru would be feeling panicked and helpless. Autor was her best friend along with Fakir; the chances of her not going to him were slim, in spite of the horrible argument. She would not be able to stand by and do nothing to try to help Fakir.

"I'd love to watch your face if they died," the thug taunted. "I'm not sure which would be more fun—to see your friend kick the bucket, after the way you treated each other, or to see your girl get it, after you went ballistic at the thought of your friend being with her without you knowing why."

"If they die, you die," Fakir vowed.

Something in his face or in his tone must have forcefully gotten the message across that he was serious, because the man actually looked somewhat startled. But the look faded, replaced by the cold face of a hardened killer. Again the gun pressed to Fakir's head.

"If you actually managed to take me out, I'd take you out at the same time," was the merciless vow. "Your girl and your buddy would find you lying dead in your blood."

Fakir steeled himself, clenching his fists at his sides. He could not let that happen, either. Somehow he had to find a way out of this, before Ahiru and Autor could get here.

He just wished he knew how.


	3. The Mansion

**Notes: I'm not sure what to say about this chapter, except that I do have a specific purpose (a couple, in fact) for sending things in the direction they go here. Also, please keep in mind that the story is only barely beginning; it will likely be at least fifteen chapters, possibly more. I am rather nervous about this chapter, but after this one I don't think there should be any hurdles to get over in the succeeding parts.**

**Chapter Three**

The carriage ride was bumpy, even on the safer road. Autor's knuckles were white as he gripped the reins. He stared ahead to make sure the horses were keeping on the path—and to make sure that nothing was suddenly appearing on the path that could panic the beasts. He was more afraid of the horses going out of control than he was of the gang they would be facing.

Ahiru sat at his side, biting her lip. She felt terrible for Autor to not only have to ride in a carriage, but to be driving it. Still, it could not be any other way; she did not know the first thing about driving a carriage and this was not the time to learn.

"It shouldn't be far now, if Fakir is really there," Autor said. "We don't want the gang to know we're coming. We'll have to hide the carriage in the woods and walk the rest of the way."

"And then we can get away in it with Fakir!" Ahiru said hopefully.

"If it goes well, yes," Autor said. "Though I'll be sure to turn the honor of driving over to him at that point."

He steered the horses to the right when there was a good opening in the wooded area. They went agreeably, trotting up the small incline and among the concealing trees and bushes. As he brought them to a halt and climbed down, he tensed. He still had to unhook them from the carriage and tie them to the trees. The moonlight hid the fear in his eyes, but Ahiru was certain it was there.

She hopped down next to him. "Can I help?" she asked. "I heard what the man was telling you to do too."

Autor hesitated. He did not like to expose Ahiru to the possible dangers, but that was likely his fear talking. There was the chance that Ahiru would have trouble holding onto things and she might drop something and scare the horses. On the other hand, they might be receptive to her sweet nature.

"Alright," he said at last. "Try to keep these beasts calm while I unhook them."

Ahiru brightened to be able to be of use. "Okay!" she chirped.

She went in front of the horses, gently stroking their noses and talking to them. They snorted and nudged her, seeming to like her attention. Autor managed to release them from the carriage and then tie them to two trees without incident.

"Thank God," he muttered, sighing in relief as he stepped back. Louder he said, "We should leave now."

Ahiru gave the horses a final pat and scurried after him.

For a few minutes they walked in silence, with Autor not feeling like talking and Ahiru trying to think what to say. But soon the quiet became too loud for them both.

"Is something wrong?" Autor asked. Not much had been said on the carriage ride either, but he had attributed that to the jolting and bouncing. For it to persist now that they were on solid ground was indicative of a different explanation.

Ahiru started and looked up at him. "Well . . . yeah!" she said. Looking away she mumbled, "I feel like it's my fault that this happened with you and Fakir. If I hadn't asked you for help with getting something for Raetsel . . ."

Autor stared at her, stunned. "You can't think that!" he said. "It happened because Fakir didn't have enough trust. If that's how he feels, it's better for it to come out sooner rather than later."

Ahiru looked back to him. "But he trusts you!" she protested. "He just got mad and worried and jealous and stuff. . . ." By the time she finished the sentence she was gazing at the ground. She was making a terrible case.

Autor pushed up his glasses. "Aside from the fact that I wanted to keep my word about not revealing the truth without your permission, I could tell he wasn't ready to listen to any sort of innocuous account," he said. "He really appeared to believe I was guilty of betraying him. I don't appreciate that. And even if he was speaking solely in anger, he let his temper snap too drastically."

"Can you . . . ever make up?" It was a question Ahiru did not want to ask for fear of the answer, yet she felt she had to know all the same.

Autor lapsed into silence once more. "I don't want any harm to come to Fakir," he said then. "But that doesn't mean I still consider him a friend, nor that I necessarily even _want_ to try to mend this. I don't know if it's possible to repair the damage. If Fakir doesn't trust me, how can I trust him? Why would I want such a person for a friend?"

Ahiru's lower lip trembled. "If you could just talk things out with him," she said, half-pleading. "He feels so bad! And . . . and there's other friends who have awful arguments like this and they fix things!"

"Yes, but we aren't 'other friends'," Autor said.

"It can't be worse than when you went crazy and wanted power and pushed us all away!" Ahiru blurted out without thinking. Her eyes widened and she clapped her hands over her mouth. She had not meant to say that!

Autor stopped short, nearly resulting in the unsuspecting Ahiru tumbling to the ground. She wobbled, then straightened and looked to him in sickened alarm and regret.

"I didn't mean to bring that up!" she exclaimed. "Autor, I'm sorry. I . . ."

"No."

She blinked in surprise. "Huh?"

Autor turned to look at her. "You made a valid point," he said. "If Fakir was able to forgive me for that, I should be able to forgive this." But he frowned. "Although I wonder if he truly did forgive me," he mused. "Or even if he did, maybe I never did regain his trust. Maybe his outburst tonight was an offshoot of that. What if somewhere deep down, he's never known if he can trust me since then?"

Ahiru felt her heart squeeze. "That's not true!" she cried. "He's never acted weird about us doing things together before. He's always said he knew you wouldn't betray him. He just got mad tonight and he wasn't thinking! Or something like that. I know you got his trust back after you came back to yourself! I know it!"

But Autor slowly shook his head. "You can't really know that, unless you can see every facet of his heart," he said. "Neither of us can do that."

"Then there's just as much chance that he does trust you as there is the chance that he doesn't!" Ahiru declared.

At last a smile crept over Autor's features. "You still don't give up," he said.

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "And I'm not going to!" she said. Her shoulders drooped. "I really won't forgive myself if you guys can't be friends any more," she said softly.

Autor sighed. "And how can I say we can't be with that as the stakes?" he said. "Unfortunately, it isn't that simple. However . . ." He looked at Ahiru until she felt his gaze and looked back to him. "I will promise that I will make my best effort."

She brightened. "Really?"

"Yes." Autor shook his head. "I suppose there's still some part of me that wants to fight for the friendship I thought we had. Though the rest of me doesn't know why."

"It's a start," Ahiru said. "I know you can have it again. I know it!"

"It's hard to stay negative around you," Autor noted. "When I'm with you, I start to feel as though anything is possible. It's a strange sensation. But not unwelcome," he added.

Ahiru smiled all the more. But as the moon suddenly shone on them more clearly, she looked up with a surprised start.

"Hey, we're coming to the end of the woods," she said. "Is that the mansion?" She pointed up ahead to a three-story building.

"It is," Autor said. "And there's a car!" He grew both excited and tense at the discovery. This could very well be the place where Fakir was, just as they had hoped. Now they had to pause and determine what they could do to save him. Of course, just barging in was completely out of the question. They wanted to escape with Fakir, not get caught themselves.

"So what now?" Ahiru demanded.

An ominous _click_ interrupted whatever Autor had been about to say. It was followed in quick succession by several others and cold-hearted laughter. As the sneering thugs emerged from the brush, guns held high, Ahiru backed up into Autor, her heart racing. Autor gripped her forearms, tense and angry.

They had been outsmarted by the gang without having a chance to do anything. This was not a good sign.

"Isn't it late to be wandering around here, kids?" said the man in the lead.

"We've been lost for hours," Autor retorted before Ahiru could speak. "Isn't it unethical to point guns at innocent bystanders?"

"You're both trespassers and you're here to rescue your friend," was the reply. "Only there's not going to be anything of the kind tonight."

"What have you done with Fakir?" Ahiru wailed. The charade was pointless, and anyway, she was too upset to keep it up now.

"Nothing yet," the gunman said. "But you'll know when we do something to him. You'll be right there." He nodded to the thug on his right, who reached out and grabbed Ahiru's arm to pull her away from Autor. She yelped in pain and Autor held fast.

"We'll go with you," he said coolly. When they were outnumbered, there was not much choice. "Just leave us be and allow us to walk."

"I'm giving the orders here," the leader answered. Bringing the gun to Ahiru's forehead he added, "Let go of her or I'll shoot."

Autor clenched his teeth. He could not risk the possibility it was a bluff. He released Ahiru's arms but stood where he was.

The man's lips pulled back in a nasty smirk. "Good," he said. "All it takes is a little manipulation in the right place. Now, come with us and we'll take you to Fakir."

xxxx

Fakir stiffened, looking towards the open door into the hall at the sound of multiple footsteps first in the parlor and then on the stairs. For what had seemed hours everything had been quiet. Now it sounded like an army had arrived.

"What's going on?" he wanted to know. "Are you guys ready to leave?"

"Could be," the man growled. "Or maybe they caught someone messing around."

Fakir's eyes widened in horrified alarm. That was it; somehow he knew that was it. And the people they caught could very well be . . .

A thump and a familiar moan stabbed the arrow deeper into his heart. "Ahiru!" he cried, leaping up from the chair.

The thug forcefully pushed him back down. "Cut it out, punk," he snarled.

Before Fakir could snap a retort, an annoyed voice came from the top of the stairs. "What's wrong with you? Can't you even walk up some stairs without doing something stupid?" And the gangster called Ahiru a vulgar name. Fakir's blood raged.

"I just couldn't see this step!" Ahiru shot back, angry and embarrassed all at once. "Maybe if I'm around when you trip on something I'll call you a . . . whatever it was you just called me!"

"Ahiru, hush."

Fakir stared at the door, his hands balled into fists. That was definitely Autor's voice. He was likely concerned about Ahiru copying such language as well as the possibility that she might incite the criminals to harm her.

He had not heard Autor since the argument. Had he come because of Ahiru's worry or because of his determination to do the right thing, in spite of his personal feelings? Or both? After the way Fakir had treated him, Fakir doubted it was at all likely that Autor had come because of concern about him.

Without warning the half-open door burst open the rest of the way, slamming against the wall with such ferocity that the plaster cracked. The gang members entered, prodding Ahiru and Autor with guns between their shoulder blades.

"Look at this, kid," the leader said, sneering at Fakir. "Your friends came to rescue you. Too bad they won't get the chance."

Fakir stared at them. "You shouldn't be here," he cried, his alarm and fear mixing with anger. "You're both idiots! These guys are out of all our league!"

"Of course we should be here!" Ahiru said. "Don't talk to us like that! Fakir, are you okay?" She tried to run forward, but two thugs caught her arms and wrenched them behind her back. "Hey!" she cried, struggling against them in vain.

"He's fine," one of them told her. "He's still alive. But now that he's been inducted into our organization to pay his dad's debt, we have a task for him."

Fakir's eyes were twin daggers boring into the wretch's soul. "What debt?" he demanded. "What did my father have to do with the likes of you?"

"We recruited him when he wasn't much older than you," said the leader. "He was kind of a rebel back then." He smirked at Fakir's increasing shock. "He liked the thought of being in a gang, at least at first." His face hardened. "When he decided he didn't like it, he had himself a problem."

"And that's when he escaped back to Kinkan," Fakir deduced, his own visage dark yet fiery. "The smartest thing he could have done."

"Only now you have to serve his time with us," was the retort. "And your first order is to do something to ensure that these two won't interfere any more."

Again Fakir sprang up, shoving the thug back before he could be pushed onto the chair. "I'm not going to hurt them!" he snarled.

Two guns clicked as the safeties were disabled. Both of them were brought to the back of Ahiru's head, as her eyes widened in shock and fear. Autor was thrust forward to crash on his knees. He gritted his teeth in pain.

"Fight the boy or the girl dies," the leader retorted. All other guns were brought to point at Fakir and Autor. "If he's out of commission she'll be too busy mending him to bother about us."

Fakir swore helplessly under his breath, his gaze traveling over the weapons and then back to his friends. What was he going to do? What _could_ he do? The monster meant every word; that was obvious from his cold, remorseless tone. They were dealing with something they had never before encountered—heartless killers.

There was no possible way to charge the thugs and save Ahiru. They would all be shot dead. But . . . would that be better than the alternative? And what guarantee did they even have that Ahiru would not be killed anyway?

"Fakir."

He started at the sound of Autor's voice. The bespectacled boy was looking up at him in determination and resolution. He had already made up his mind on what to do.

"Fakir, we aren't being given a choice. Do what they want and fight me."

"No!" Ahiru wailed.

The guns pressed harder against her head. "Shut up," one of their owners growled.

Fakir stared at Autor, his heart beginning to gather speed. "Are you out of your mind?" he snarled. "I can't fight you any more than I could condemn Ahiru to death!"

Autor's lips curled in an ironic smile. "And yet you didn't seem to have any problems with preparing to throttle me senseless several hours ago," he said.

Fakir clamped his mouth shut, unable to hide the guilt flickering in his eyes. Autor sighed, slowly getting to his feet even as the guns remained trained on his back.

"They want us to fight because they heard us arguing earlier," Fakir said at last. "They think this would be a big joke. That's all we are—something for them to laugh at." He glowered at Autor. "We don't have a guarantee they'll let Ahiru live in any case."

"How can we afford to take chances with her life?" Autor returned, an edge slipping into his voice. "There isn't a way out of this, Fakir. You'll have to trust that somehow, eventually we'll all come out of this by doing what they want now."

"No, please!" Ahiru burst out. By now she was practically in tears. "Don't do it! Don't worry about me!" Her shoulders shook. "I wanted you to make up and be friends again, not to fight some more. Especially not because of me!"

"You don't have all day to decide," the leader said, ignoring Ahiru's desperate outburst. "In fact, you don't even have one minute. Get out on that balcony right now and fight."

The other gang members closed in on the boys, all with cocked guns and merciless eyes. Ahiru was pushed forward as well, her two captors continuing to hold the weapons at her head.

Fakir swore again. "Don't hurt her!" he roared.

"Then hurt _him,_" the leader retorted, jerking his own revolver in Autor's direction. All the while they were moving, drawing closer to the open balcony doors.

Autor fixed him with a cold stare before looking back to Fakir. "We're going to fight, Fakir," he said, at the same time trying to convey a silent message with his eyes. He could only pray that Fakir would be attentive and pick up on what he could not say aloud.

Fakir stiffened. There was something in Autor's eyes, something he was not quite sure of. It was intended as a private communication between them, he understood that much. Could Autor be trying to hint that maybe they could catch the gang off-guard if they played along for a while? Yes, that could be it! What if Fakir went easy on Autor but could make it look authentic? And what if Autor could pretend to be badly hurt and then come to Fakir's aid at a point when he would be needed? Maybe they could take care of all of these creeps and actually get away safe.

Of course, he could not let on that anything had changed in his manner and feelings. He had to continue acting gruff and unwilling. "Fine," he snapped. "Just for Ahiru."

With that he lunged, shoving Autor with both hands through the door and onto the balcony. Autor gasped and stumbled, nearly losing his balance altogether when Fakir let go. But then his eyes narrowed and he lunged right back, elbowing Fakir harshly in the stomach.

Fakir grunted as he fell back. That had certainly felt authentic. Autor was stronger than his slender, muscle-lacking body appeared. Fakir shot out with his fist, catching Autor on the cheek. Autor was knocked off his feet—unless he was acting. If he was, even Fakir could not tell.

It was impossible to not think about when he had grabbed Autor earlier that evening. Ahiru's cry of horror had stopped the fight then. Now Ahiru was sobbing and screaming as she watched this new fight, and neither Fakir nor Autor could afford to bring it to a stop.

Autor pushed himself to his feet and went at Fakir before suddenly swaying to the side. Fakir frowned. What was he going to try now?

His eyes widened as Autor abruptly dove at him from the right. Autor had previously taught him about pressure points. Was he going to try, or pretend to try, pressing one of them? That was likely; Autor preferred that approach when possible.

"I know your strategies," Fakir said, "and I can't let you go through with this one." He swerved away from the attack, swinging a blow at Autor at the same moment. His fist caught Autor under the jaw and the boy wheezed in pain, tumbling backwards against the wooden railing.

The old wood splintered under Autor's weight, tearing free without allowing him to do anything about it. His eyes widened in shock. The wood had looked thick and strong. Had that all been an illusion? Or . . .

"_Autor!"_

He looked up as he fell. Fakir was lunging, his eyes panicked and haunted as he tried to grab hold of Autor and pull him back up. Ahiru was screaming, yelling for the thugs to let her go and that she had to help Fakir save Autor.

There was no lingering, suspended in air sensation, as in the movies. Instead there was only the surreal feeling of falling, as though it were some nightmarish dream. In the space of that instant, three thoughts flashed through Autor's mind.

_We failed._

_They wanted us to fight on the balcony because they knew the railing would break._

_Fakir, I'm sorry._

Then he struck the ground and everything slammed into darkness.

Fakir crashed to his knees, leaning through the ruined safety guard as he stared with blank eyes at the body on the grass. "Autor," he croaked. His voice was barely loud enough to be heard, but it was a horrified cry to his ears. "My cousin. I've killed my own cousin."


	4. Separated

**Chapter Four**

It did not take long for Fakir and Ahiru to be herded downstairs and outside to the lawn. Ahiru was wailing in horror and pleading for Fakir to talk to her. Fakir was too dazed and sickened to even fully process that she was talking to him.

It did not matter that he had been following a plan he thought Autor had outlined or that the villains had forced them into it or that it had been an accident. All that really mattered was that he had caused Autor's fall. There had not even been a chance to apologize for the horrible argument and ask for forgiveness. Surely Fakir had added insult to injury. Ahiru had probably told him how terrible Fakir felt, but it was not the same as Fakir confirming it himself.

Autor had not moved by the time they arrived at his side. He was lying on his back, his head turned to the right. From this angle, there was no way to tell if he was breathing—but his chalk-white countenance certainly did not offer confidence. Fakir started to bend over him, dreading what he would find.

Without warning one of the gangsters charged him, punching him in the stomach. He gasped in stunned pain, stumbling backwards and doubling over.

"Fakir!" Ahiru burst out.

Fakir clenched his teeth, looking up with furious eyes at the man who had assaulted him. "What was that for?" he snapped. His short patience was at an end; this was the final grievance. "I have to see if he's alive! He needs help!"

The thug straightened, giving the lifeless form a cursory glance before delivering a swift and cruel kick. "He's dead," he sneered when there was no reaction.

"No!" Ahiru sobbed. "No, he can't be! I won't believe it! Don't hurt him worse!"

Fakir forced himself to stand, ignoring the sharp pain in his gut. "He could still be alive," he said brokenly, but it was clear he did not really believe it himself.

"It doesn't matter anyway," said the leader. He gestured with his gun and two henchmen came forward, snatching Fakir's arms. The hapless boy tensed, glaring at first one, then the other.

"You followed through with your order," the crime boss continued. "If you come with us now and don't resist, I'll let the girl go . . . this time." He surveyed the area with a calculating gaze. "There's no help for miles. And your horses have already been found and set free. Unless you're willing to leave your friend's corpse, you're stranded." This he said to Ahiru, who gaped in alarm.

"You're horrible!" she yelled when she found her voice.

Fakir gritted his teeth. "You can get out of this," he said to her, praying all the while that it was true. "You get out of everything else."

She stared at him. "But . . . you can't go with them!" she protested. "You _can't!_"

Fakir looked away. "I don't have any choice right now," he said. "There's too many of them for me to take. Stay with Autor. He could still . . ." He swallowed hard, choking on the words.

Ahiru's eyes welled with tears. "This is my fault too!" she cried. "I went to Autor for help and he came here with me to help you, but we got caught and everything went wrong again! Everything went wrong. . . ." She shuddered, unable to stop the sob rising in her throat.

"Idiot. Don't talk like that," Fakir said. "I agreed to fight Autor. I knocked him through the balcony railing. It's my fault he's . . ."

"Alright, enough talking." The leader stepped in between them. "Put the girl down."

The two gangsters holding onto Ahiru's arms released her, shoving her forward at the same time. She collapsed to her knees, shaking as she stared at Autor's body. Then she looked up with a jerk, watching in helplessness as Fakir was taken to the car at gunpoint and forced inside. The criminals started climbing into the vehicle as well—and also into another that was half-hidden behind a hedge.

"Fakir," she whispered.

Her gaze traveled over the car, desperately hoping for something distinctive that could help her remember what it looked like. Then her eyes lit on a white, rectangular shape. The license plate! From where she was, she could read it. She memorized it as best as she could, praying that she would keep remembering it when she might actually be able to use it to save Fakir. Then it and the other car were gone, taking the gang and Fakir far away. In a moment all was silent, the traveling dust cloud on the road the only indication that anyone else had even been there recently.

Ahiru hiccupped, looking down sadly at Autor. "I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm so sorry, Autor. I . . . I really thought maybe we could help Fakir. I really thought it. But all I've done is get Fakir even further away and cause you to be laying here like this!" She glanced back at the mansion. "And there's no phone or anything in there. I can't call for help at all, and I can't leave you like this. . . ."

Slowly she moved her hands under his back. The chance that his spine had been broken was all too real, and she was terrified of discovering that, but everything felt intact. She bit her lip, pulling out her hands and feeling the back of his neck as well. It was also whole. In fact, she soon determined, he did not appear to have any broken bones. Yet . . . if the fall had really _killed_ him, did it matter?

"Autor," she choked out, gently sliding a hand under the cheek that was resting against the grass. With care she turned his face towards her, shuddering at how cold his skin felt. He was so pale. . . .

"Autor, wake up!" she begged. "You . . . you're really okay, aren't you? I mean, you still _can_ wake up . . . can't you?" Her bottom lip trembled. "You weren't hurt that bad. Please tell me you weren't hurt that bad. . . ." She trailed off into nothingness. Autor was not answering her.

With shaking hands she let his head slip back to the side and took up his right hand. But it was hopeless; she could not make her hands stop quaking. There was no way she could find a pulse under these circumstances.

She shuddered, continuing to cradle his hand between hers. She did not dare move him, just in case she was wrong about the broken bones and she would hurt him worse. But holding onto him made her feel at least marginally braver and more able to face whatever might come at them. If the scary shadows turned out to be more than her imagination, she would have to fight to keep them away from Autor.

The tears came again. "Fakir didn't mean it," she said, her voice shaking. "He didn't mean to hurt you. I mean, he didn't want to. You know that, don't you, Autor? He wanted to say he was sorry and still be friends with you." A sob rose in her throat and she pushed it back, clutching her limp friend's hand in desperation.

"Autor, wake up!" Ahiru wailed now. "I'm so scared you're . . . you're . . .

"Don't leave me," she pleaded. "Don't leave _us!_ Fakir would never forgive himself if you . . .

"You know he didn't want to hurt you, don't you, Autor?" she cried. "And you know he didn't mean those things he said before! He was mad; you know how he gets when he's mad! He didn't mean it. He didn't mean it. . . ."

She had already had this conversation with Autor, when he had been in a condition to contribute to it. But now she was bordering on hysteria and did not care that she was repeating herself, if she even fully realized it at all.

She shut her eyes and got down on the ground, curling up next to Autor's body. He still felt warm overall, at least, even though his face and hand had been cold. Maybe that meant he would be okay. Maybe Ahiru could feel him breathing.

Or maybe that was just because she wanted to so badly.

xxxx

Fakir's palms were clammy as he leaned forward in the car, staring at the carpeted floor without really seeing it. All he could see, over and over, was Autor sprawled lifeless in the grass after his fall, his fate unknown.

Would he possibly be alright? Would Ahiru be alright, staying with him and not knowing what to do? Would they ever get help?

_They shouldn't have come,_ Fakir thought bitterly. _Idiots! Why didn't Autor discourage Ahiru from coming, instead of supporting it? Did they really think they could go up against a gang? That's not like Autor. It's more like . . ._

He trailed off, slumping back into the seat and digging a hand into his hair. He was too impulsive and reckless; he knew that all too well. That was what had started the argument with Autor in the first place. And maybe if it had not happened, the gang leader would not have been so interested in seeing Fakir and Autor fight.

Fakir had not even had any chance to say he was sorry. Now he did not know if he ever would. If Autor was dead, of course it would be impossible until Fakir's own death—not that there would necessarily be a long time before that happened, what with him in a gang. And even if Autor was alive, what were the odds that Fakir would see him again? The gang would never let Fakir go. Both Autor and Ahiru were probably lost to him.

He frowned as his thoughts returned to the fall. Autor had not hit the railing with that much force. Had it really been so rickety that the slightest weight caused it to tear free?

Coming to think of it, the railing had looked so even and smooth when Fakir had knelt beside it. It should have been jagged and torn if it had actually splintered.

His eyes widened. In growing shock and anger he whirled to look at the man sitting next to him. Someone in the gang had at some point made sure the railing would break with the slightest pressure. They had wanted Autor to fall, even or especially by Fakir's hand.

He had already known he was in the company of murderers, but this revelation only made it far more personal to him. He clenched a fist out of sight of the thug.

On the other hand, he thought, his heart sinking, he had still been the one to push Autor into the railing. He was a murderer too.

He looked away. No! He had not been trying to harm Autor. He and Autor had, he thought, been planning to stage the fight before everything had gone wrong. Maybe the gang had even counted on them deciding to stage it, in spite of the argument, and that was why the railing had been damaged, just as an extra precaution.

"What are you thinking about, punk?"

He turned back at the sound of the gruff voice, meeting the heartless eyes with his own cold gaze.

"I'm just wondering what's going to happen to them, being left back there like that," he said.

"The boy's dead," was the unsympathetic reply. "The girl won't leave him, so she'll probably die too. Unless she finally realizes it's no use and goes back to town."

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "What if she comes after us?" he retorted.

"She won't," the guy sneered. "At least, not unless she comes alone. She won't want to get you turned in. And by herself she won't be a challenge at all. The instant any of us see her, it's shoot to kill."

Fakir fought to keep his temper down, but at such words it was impossible. The fire raged in his eyes.

"I won't let you kill Ahiru too," he snarled.

The man's gun was drawn in an instant, pointing at Fakir's head. "You won't be able to 'let' us do anything," the gangster told him. "You're working for us, whether you like it or not. And we're going far away from here. She'll never even find us."

Fakir prayed that was true. This was not something for Ahiru to get mixed up in.

But he knew that she would never give up. Whether or not Autor was dead, Ahiru would come looking for Fakir.

xxxx

The sudden stirring brought Ahiru to immediate attention. She shot upright, staring at Autor in hopeful amazement. "Autor?" she exclaimed, half-pleading half-wailing. She had not imagined the movement, had she? She was sure she had felt his arm bump against her and the motion as he had started to turn over.

His eyes fluttered and opened. "Ahiru?" he whispered, his voice raspy and weak. "Fakir . . . he was staring at me. . . . He tried to save me."

Ahiru gazed at him in joy and relief. "Yeah, he did," she said, leaning down to give him a gentle hug. "You're alive! We were so worried. . . ."

Autor laid a hand on her right shoulder, still looking dazed. "The look in his eyes . . . it was like when he tried to save me after I was forced to stab myself . . . only he couldn't." He focused on the shuddering girl, who was attempting a half-hug by keeping her hands on his shoulders. "And he's not here now. Where is he? Is he . . . staying away because of guilt?"

Ahiru froze, looking up at him in shock. "No!" she exclaimed. "Fakir, he's . . ." She swallowed hard. "He's not here. The gang took him away. They left us here . . . to die, I guess."

Autor's complete return to consciousness was abrupt. His eyes widened and he tried to sit up, but instead he fell back in the grass with a pained gasp.

"I've been a fool," he lamented, gazing up at the sky. "The only thing that's been accomplished here is that now Fakir is more devastated than before."

Ahiru knelt next to him, blinking back tears. "You just wanted to save him," she said. "And maybe to try to get things right between you and him, too."

"That doesn't change that now they're worse than ever." Again Autor attempted to sit up, this time moving slowly and holding a hand to the back of his head. "Do you have any idea where the gang is going from here?"

Ahiru shook her head. "No," she admitted. "But I did get the number on one of the cars!" she remembered.

Autor perked up. "You did? What is it?"

Ahiru scrunched up her face in concentration as she slowly recited it. Autor listened, committing it to memory as well.

"This is good!" he said, growing excited. "We may be able to use this number to track them down."

She looked at him worriedly. "But we're not supposed to call the police!" she said. "What if the crooks really do know and they hurt Fakir?"

"You saw how badly we failed to save Fakir on our own," Autor said. He continued to rub at his head as he spoke. "There is still the possible Story-Spinning angle; I haven't forgotten that. But we need help. How long is Charon going to be away?"

Ahiru frowned. "I'm not sure," she said. "But he left the number of the inn he's staying at!" she added. "Maybe we could go home and I could call him."

"Let's do that," Autor agreed. He stiffened. "Unless they've bugged the telephone," he realized.

Ahiru gaped at him. "Bugged the telephone?" she squealed. "You mean they opened it up and put beetles and stuff inside it?"

Autor wasn't sure whether to laugh or groan. "No," he said. "I mean they may have planted a device that will enable them to overhear any conversations on the telephone. Or possibly throughout the house."

"They can do that?" Ahiru cried.

"It's physically possible, yes," Autor said. "The technology exists. And I wouldn't put it past their kind. They may have done the same with my house." He looked revolted to think of them wandering through his sacred home.

Ahiru slumped back. "Then . . . where is it even safe to call?" she moaned.

"Find the number and we'll use a payphone," Autor told her.

Ahiru gave a slow nod. "Okay. I guess they couldn't . . . _bug_ a payphone," she said, making a face at the unfamiliar term.

"But they took the horses and let them go!" she exclaimed then. "We won't have the carriage to ride back to town in. And you're don't look like you're in any shape to walk!"

Autor stared at her, stunned by the announcement. "The horses are gone?" he gasped. But then he sighed and closed his eyes. "Nevermind. I really don't feel like steering them anyway. If they have any sense they'll wander back to town."

And what would they do? He did not like to admit that Ahiru was right, but he was not sure he could make the trip on foot, at least not tonight. His head was throbbing and he ached all over. When he stood, he would not be surprised if he were assailed by vertigo and nausea.

"Maybe we'll have to stay in there tonight," Ahiru ventured, her voice quavering as she looked to the foreboding house.

"Maybe," Autor said.

She looked back to him, her eyes wide in concern. "Autor, are you hurt really bad?" she wailed. "Usually you tell me you feel fine!"

Autor colored a bit at her worry. "I don't think it's anything serious," he said. "As long as I rest a while."

He frowned. Could he have a concussion, even just a mild one? It could be dangerous for him to sleep if he did.

He took off his glasses. "Ahiru, do my eyes look normal?" he asked.

She rocked back, bewildered. "Eh?"

"Uneven pupils are one possible sign of a serious brain injury," he said. "How are mine?"

Ahiru frowned, leaning in close as she studied his eyes. "They look okay to me," she said slowly. "I think. . . ."

Autor replaced his glasses. "I don't suppose you know how long I've been unconscious," he said.

She shook her head. "No," she said. "Everything happened so fast with Fakir being forced away and then we were all alone and I tried to wake you up but you didn't wake up and I was so worried . . ." She sighed, her shoulders rising and falling. "It felt like ages that I was waiting! But maybe it was only a few minutes."

Autor sighed. "I'm sorry."

Absently and with care he rubbed at his head. "I don't have amnesia regarding what happened to me," he mused. "Not remembering is another possible sign of a concussion." He frowned. "What happened was burned so strongly into my mind that I couldn't forget it."

Ahiru looked down. "You and Fakir were trying to help me," she said.

"That doesn't make it your fault, Ahiru. Fakir was right—we were out of our league. We didn't stand a chance against those murderers." Balancing himself on one hand, Autor got his feet under him and then slowly began to rise.

Ahiru watched him worriedly. "Are you sure you can get up?" she exclaimed.

Autor wobbled, clawing at the air for balance. "Yes," he said.

Ahiru caught hold of his hands and helped to steady him as she stood. "I'll help you," she said firmly. "Come on, let's go in the house and maybe there's a room on the first floor where you can rest."

Autor turned a bit red, embarrassed but also grateful for her help. "That's probably the best solution for now," he agreed. "Let's go."

Ahiru drew one of his arms around her shoulders, placing her own around his waist as they moved with care to the front door and then through the doorway.

The old house was cold. Ahiru shivered as they passed into what had once been a very nice parlor. Now it, as well as every other room, was abandoned and lonely. The furniture, instead of bearing white sheets and looking ghostly, stood as it had decades earlier. There had not been time to really look at the rooms when they had been brought in at gunpoint. As they searched for a bedroom Ahiru studied the rooms in a melancholy fascination.

"I wonder what happened to the people who lived here," she said.

"No one knows," Autor said. "They left suddenly God knows how many years ago."

"And no one wanted to buy the house and fix it up?" Ahiru said in disbelief.

"By the time we were out of Drosselmeyer's bubble and really knew about the house, it was like this," Autor said. "The city council has been thinking of proclaiming it a historical site."

"That would be nice," Ahiru said. "It's kind of sad, to see it like this. It's so lonely."

Somewhere within its walls, the house groaned. Ahiru froze, her grip on Autor tightening.

"Is it . . . haunted?" she quavered.

"I really don't know," Autor said. "But that wasn't a ghost; that was the house settling in."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "I hope so," she said. "Oh, here's a bedroom. . . ." She pushed open a door that was already ajar, revealing an old room with twin beds on either side of a nightstand with a lamp. The quilts and curtains were yellowed, but overall the room gave no indication of being occupied by unwelcome pests.

Autor moved towards the nearest bed. "I'm going to lay on top of the covers," he said, eying the worn comforter with suspicion. "I don't care to sleep in a strange bed, particularly one in an deserted house."

Ahiru helped him over to it and then eased him onto the mattress. "I don't think I could sleep at all," she said with a shudder. "It's so creepy here and you're hurt and Fakir's with the gang. . . ."

"You need rest as much as I do." Autor slipped out of his shoes before swinging his legs up. "You won't have any strength for tomorrow, and there's so much to get done."

Ahiru sat on the edge of the other bed. "I guess so," she said in a noncommittal tone.

Autor lay on his side, drawing the pillow closer to him. "We'll rescue Fakir, Ahiru," he said quietly. "Somehow I promise you, this nightmare will end."

Ahiru gave a weak smile. "I know," she said. "And Fakir will be fighting too. He won't just stay in the gang and not ever try to get out."

Autor closed his eyes, falling silent. ". . . I wonder if I hurt Fakir," he said. "When he confronted me, I mean."

Ahiru looked down. "I remember Neko-Sensei said it takes two people to argue," she said.

"At first I tried to tell myself it was just another of his usual explosions," Autor said, opening his eyes and gazing at the ceiling. "But when he seized me and wouldn't let go, I realized he had gone beyond the usual. And what he said when he finally released me insulted me so badly that I couldn't let it pass. Although I had planned to censure him before he spoke at that point."

Ahiru shifted. "So you were insulted . . . or just hurt?" she ventured.

Again Autor was silent. "I shouldn't feel hurt," he muttered. "It's a weak emotion."

"It isn't either!" Ahiru exclaimed, leaping to her feet. "It's something you feel because you really care about people. And that's not weak at all."

A faint smile played on Autor's lips. "You sound like Princess Tutu," he said. "I can imagine her saying that."

"Yeah, I guess," Ahiru said.

Autor let out a resigned sigh. "Yes, I was hurt," he said. "I still feel somewhat bruised. It's strange; I don't think I fully realized how much I'd come to believe in that friendship until it felt like it was being pulled out from under my feet." He gave a humorless laugh. "Maybe Fakir felt the same. Yet . . . even though I'm feeling somewhat guilty now for what I said to him, I still feel like he should have trusted me to begin with and controlled his temper. I wonder, is that wrong?"

Ahiru sat down on the edge of his bed. "I don't think so," she said. "At least . . . I've felt like that too. And I know I would've got upset. I would have been screaming at Fakir. It hurts when it feels like someone you care about doesn't trust you."

"And it hurts when you feel betrayed," Autor lamented. "Both of us do, I imagine."

Ahiru laid a hand on his. "It'll be okay," she said. "You and Fakir can still be friends, if you can just talk things out and not get mad at each other again!"

Autor gave a slight smile. "Perhaps," he said. Sobering he added, "But in the meantime Fakir must be feeling horrible. I feel responsible for that. It's a terrible feeling."

"I feel responsible too," Ahiru said. "Everything started when I asked you about the jewelry store, and then later when I came to you for help because Fakir got taken." She started to get up. "But you need to rest. You won't be feeling up to doing stuff tomorrow either!"

Autor reached and caught her hand. "Ahiru." He hesitated. "If I . . . fall asleep and you're still awake, could you check my watch and wake me in thirty minutes? Ask me what my name is."

Ahiru gawked at him. "Why?" she exclaimed.

"Just in case I have a concussion." Autor took off his glasses, setting them on the nightstand. "I don't like to burden you with the task, but . . ."

"It's not a burden!" Ahiru interrupted. "Of course I'll do it. I still don't think I'll be getting any sleep."

"I hope you will," Autor said. "At least you should try."

"Yeah. I'll try." Ahiru moved back to the other bed. "Goodnight, Autor."

"Goodnight." Autor closed his eyes again. In spite of himself, he was soon asleep.


	5. Witness

**Chapter Five**

_The balcony broke, taking Autor with it. Fakir lunged for him, screaming his name in agonized desperation and horror, but to no avail. Autor hit the ground with a sickening thump. Everything fell to black._

_Fakir crashed to his knees in the nothingness, trembling. "Autor," he choked out. "I've killed him. Autor. . . ."_

"_Hmph. I hope you're satisfied."_

_He looked up with a start as a light shone in the distance, casting a glow on him and the surrounding area. Autor was standing over him, his expression unreadable. One arm was crossed over his chest, while with the hand of his other he pushed up his glasses._

"_Satisfied?" Fakir repeated, pushing himself to his feet. "What do you mean?" He could not see it, but the color was gone from his face. "I didn't want to kill you! I didn't even want to hurt you. Before, I . . . I didn't control my temper. . . ."_

"_So I noticed." Autor frowned in confusion and then removed his glasses. "I won't be needing these now." He held them out to Fakir, who took them with shaking hands. "Let Ahiru do with them as she pleases."_

_Fakir stared at them blankly, his heart's speed increasing._

"_You will give them to her, won't you?" Autor said. "Or will you withhold them in your jealousy?"_

_Again Fakir looked up. "No!" he cried. He swore in his anguish. "Of course I'll give them to her! Autor . . ." He reached for the other boy. "Autor, I'm sorry. . . ."_

_Autor was already turning away. "So am I," he said. He glanced over his shoulder for a brief moment. "I never intended to die by the hands of a former friend." He looked away, facing the light as he began to walk towards it._

"_Autor!" Fakir screamed. He tried to make himself move, but he was frozen to the spot. He could only watch in helplessness as Autor walked away from him._

Fakir started awake, sitting up straight with a jerk. In an instant the scene around him came into focus. They were still in the car, going down the road, but the vehicle was shaking in an unpleasant and almost nauseating way. Fakir whirled to face the man next to him, about to demand an explanation, but the thug was occupied looking out the window at the rear right tire.

"Maybe we really shouldn't have taken the car through the forest," he said. "It's been getting worse the last hour!"

The driver gritted his teeth. "It can take it," he retorted.

"Yeah, but I don't know if _I_ can!" the other gangster said. "The kid's looking a little green too."

Fakir frowned. If he was feeling any kind of bad effects, was it really from the quaking car . . . or from his nightmare? He ran a hand into his damp bangs. How he had even fallen asleep in here was beyond him. He had thought he was wide awake and would not be able to sleep at all in his sickened agony.

Was Autor really gone? Had Fakir left Ahiru alone with a dead body? He swallowed hard. It had just been a nightmare, right? It had not actually been Autor trying to communicate with him before crossing over to the other side. . . .

But whether Autor was dead or alive, he would never forgive Fakir for this, would he? What if he even believed that Fakir had known about the balcony and had deliberately knocked him into it so he would fall?

Of course Autor would never forgive him. Fakir would never forgive himself, either.

"Look, the car's going out on us," the man next to him was saying now. "We're coming up to a village or a town or something. Let's stop for the night and see if we can get the thing fixed."

The driver cursed. "We need to get further away than this!" he said. "Just in case that girl does chase after us with the police."

"And what if the car starts shaking itself apart?" the other thug countered. "What then?"

"Maybe he's right," the man in the passenger seat said, sounding worried. "It is getting bad. I'm actually getting dizzy."

The driver swore again. "Call Anton and tell him the problem," he said. "If he okays it, we'll stop."

Fakir watched as the passenger took out a cellphone and dialed a number. Was Anton in the other car? These men had been careful not to reveal their names around him, but that could surely not continue indefinitely. He frowned more. He only knew that the one who had seemed like the leader was the driver of this car. But he could not really be the leader, or why would Anton have to be the one to give permission?

Was Anton the boss over this entire operation, at a location they were all trying to reach? Fakir had thought he knew what was going on, but now he was stymied.

The man hung up the phone. "Anton says if it's as bad as I'm saying, we should stop," he said. "And maybe we should change license plates anyway; there's a chance the girl saw at least one of them."

The driver's eyes narrowed. "Fine then," he said. "We'll go around the back of that barn and stop. Heinrich will follow us with the other car. Then we'll just have to hope the people here will take in overnight guests without asking questions. We can't risk going to an inn."

He turned the wheel to the right, guiding the shaking vehicle along a dirt path that led next to a barn off the side of the road. When they were out of sight of anyone who might pass by, he shut off the engine and removed the key.

The man next to Fakir waved his gun at him. "Get out," he said. "And if you try anything funny, don't trust that I'll let you live even though you are Ambrosius's kid."

Fakir glowered. "I'm not a comedian," he said. After snapping the seatbelt loose, he opened his door and climbed out of the car. The thug followed, keeping his gun pointed at Fakir's back.

"Are you going to show your guns to whoever's in there?" Fakir asked as they walked towards the house.

"We'll see," the man answered.

The one in the lead had already reached the door. He knocked urgently, then leaned back and waited for a moment. When no one came right away, he pounded again.

At last the door creaked open. An older man stood there, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "What on earth is the trouble, coming here so late?" he half-mumbled.

"We're businessmen on our way to an important convention," the gangster told him, "but our car is acting strange and we don't dare drive it any further tonight. We wondered if it would be at all possible that we could stay here until morning, when we can take it to a mechanic?"

The homeowner frowned, still looking confused. "Businessmen?" he repeated. "Convention? And you're passing through here?" He glanced behind the other to the rest of the group waiting on the walk. "Who's this boy? Surely he's not a businessman too," he added, seeming to be more awake now.

"He's . . . the son of an old friend of ours," was the reply. Fakir stiffened in anger. "We're taking him with us to the convention."

The man frowned. "I see. Well, far be it from me to keep you out in the cold. But . . . I'm not sure there's room enough for all of you. I'm just a simple farmer, you see, and I live alone."

"We can stay on the floor," the criminal said. "We don't want to trouble you."

The farmer scratched his head. "Alright then, if you're sure," he said, opening the door wider. "I've tinkered with cars; maybe tomorrow I can have a look at yours. But for now, come on in."

The gangster stepped forward. "Thanks." He gestured to the rest. "Come on."

The others filed ahead, entering the house after him. The farmer stepped to the side, keeping one hand on the edge of the open door.

Fakir glanced at the thug behind him. "Hey, when you're done here, what are you going to do with him?" he hissed.

"That depends on how nosy he gets," the gangster said.

Fakir clenched his teeth. "It's a small place," he said. "Killing him would be just about the stupidest thing you could possibly do. Everyone would know in a couple of hours."

"You're right," was the cold reply. "So it'd have to look like an accident. You'd better start praying that he minds his own business." The gun tapped him on the back. "Get moving."

Of course the weapon would have to be put away before their hapless host could see it. Fakir was not worried about it being used on him, but now he had another life in his hands. And the farmer was starting to look wary as he saw the sheer number of "businessmen" he had agreed to house. It looked doubtful that he would continue to believe their cover story. Fakir did indeed pray as he walked to the door.

_If I can do anything to save his life if he gets it in danger, please let me. And . . . wherever Autor and Ahiru are, please keep them safe too._

He looked into the farmer's still-sleepy but suspicious eyes, saying nothing aloud as he walked past and into the house. After the man behind him was inside as well, the door was closed.

It sounded thunderous to Fakir's ears.

xxxx

"_Autor! Autor, I didn't mean to cause your death! AUTOR!"_

Autor's eyes flew open in the darkness of the bedroom. He breathed heavily, his hands slipping from his chest to his sides.

"Fakir," he whispered.

Where was he now? Did he really think Autor was dead? Did he just fear it, but was still trying to believe Autor was alive? When would Autor get the chance to show him the truth?

It was not just Autor's fear that Fakir was agonized, was it? No, it could not be. Not after the way Fakir had looked when he had tried to save Autor. And Ahiru had already said that Fakir felt horrible about the argument. Fakir still cared about him.

And Autor still cared about him too. In spite of the hurt and the anger, Fakir was his friend. That would not change, even though for a while he had believed it had.

It was strange to come to that realization, especially after the deep wounds he had suffered after he had been betrayed as a child. He had never again considered those people his friends and had not wanted to see them any more, ever. He still did not, really—though now it was mainly because he had moved on and discovered true friendships. They had truly betrayed him, revealing that they had never thought of him as a friend to begin with.

He and Fakir had been on the rocks with each other more than once. But it was true, what Ahiru had said—surely this hurdle was not worse than the time Autor had lost his mind. In fact, surely it was not nearly as serious as then. And there had been no lie in Fakir's eyes when he had lunged to try to save Autor from falling. He had been stricken with horror and agony. Surely that proved Fakir was not like the children who had displayed such open hostility. They never would have looked like that. They probably would have laughed if Autor had fallen due to a fight with one of them.

Ahiru was also right that Autor had really felt hurt by Fakir's actions and words, rather than merely insulted. And the hurt still lingered because of how Autor felt about Fakir. He wanted to have a chance to resolve this mess, and to offer to try again, if Fakir was willing. Because some part of him believed that their friendship was real and true, he could not bring himself to simply give up and throw it away.

But . . . even if Fakir did not want to try again, Autor could not condemn him to this fate, could he? Especially when Ahiru cared so much about him.

He sighed. If Fakir was his mortal enemy—which he was not—Autor supposed he still could not abandon him in this mess. At any rate, he could not let Ahiru try to deal with it all on her own.

"Autor?"

He started, looking to the side. Ahiru had been kneeling at the side of his bed, her arms crossed on the mattress. Now she was standing and leaning over him, regarding him worriedly.

"Autor, are you okay?"

He managed a nod. "Yes," he said.

"And you know your name?" Ahiru asked.

"I'm Autor." He looked at Ahiru in concern. "How long has it been?"

Ahiru bit her lip. "Um, I'm not sure," she said, guilt in her eyes. "I was over here so I could check your watch, but I must've gone to sleep. . . ."

Autor rose up on one elbow. "I didn't mean to cause you not to sleep," he exclaimed. "I only wanted you to wake me if you were still awake. And you won't get much of a decent sleep there like that." He regarded her kindly. "Go back to the other bed."

She stayed where she was. "But what about your concussion?" she said.

"If I have one, it's probably mild," Autor said. "I woke up on my own; I should be alright."

Ahiru bit her lip. "If you're sure," she said.

"I'm sure," Autor said.

Ahiru half-turned, then hesitated again. "Aren't you cold, Autor?" she blurted. "There's no heat in this old house and you're on top of the covers and . . ."

Autor glanced over the edge of the bed. It looked like the quilt was loose, yet not touching the floor. "I'm not cold," he said. "But if it would make you feel better, I could draw up one of the comforter's edges like this." He reached and pulled up the side of the quilt, draping it over him.

Ahiru smiled. "That almost looks cozy," she said. "Maybe I'll try it too." She walked to the other bed and sat down, unbuckling her shoes. Then she paused, staring at her stocking-feet. "I feel kind of guilty, sleeping when Fakir is in so much trouble. . . ."

"You have to sleep," Autor returned. "You look ready to drop right now."

Ahiru looked up at him. "You made Fakir stand there for three days without sleep," she said.

"Yes, well . . . that was to help train him to focus on his gift," Autor said. "I don't see any sense in trying to stay awake now."

"I guess." Ahiru tried and failed to stifle a yawn. She laid down on her right side, facing Autor. Reaching behind her, she pulled up the side of the quilt and burrowed under it.

"I remember when Fakir thought he was Lohengrin and we had to follow him to Mytho's kingdom trying to save him," she said softly. "I was so worried, and so many times everything seemed so hopeless.

"I can't remember if I ever told you, Autor, but you gave me strength then. Sometimes . . ." She blinked back tears. "Sometimes you were the only thing keeping me from breaking down."

Autor looked to her, turning a bit red at her confession. "I . . . I'm glad I was able to help you," he said. "There were times I didn't know what to think myself."

"But we'll save Fakir again, just like before," Ahiru said. "And everything will be okay."

"Yes," Autor said after a brief silence. "I certainly hope and pray so."

Now Ahiru was silent. Autor began to think she had fallen asleep. He closed his eyes and was preparing to doze when she suddenly spoke.

"Um, Autor?"

He could not help the sigh that escaped his lips at the disturbance. "What is it?" he asked.

"Is there . . . a certain kind of way you're supposed to pray?"

Autor blinked in surprise. Of all things Ahiru could have said, that was something he never would have guessed. Then again, she was often unpredictable.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Well . . . they teach you prayers and stuff to say in church," Ahiru said. "But is that the way you're always supposed to do it?" She looked down. "I'm so worried about Fakir, and I've been praying for him, but I got wondering if I'd even be paid attention to if I don't do it like they teach." She bit her lip. "I haven't been able to memorize any of the prayers and . . ."

Autor frowned, contemplating his answer. "I certainly don't claim to be able to speak for God," he said at last. "But if He's truly just, doesn't it seem logical that He would listen to every sincere prayer, no matter what the words are?"

Ahiru thought on that. "Yeah," she said. "I guess. . . ."

"Good. Now go to sleep."

Ahiru nodded. "Okay."

As Autor began at last to slip back into slumber, whispered words met his ears and mixed with his semi-conscious state.

"_Please protect Fakir and help us find him. I'm so worried about him and I know Autor is too! And Fakir must just be feeling so horrible about the fight. I wish he could know that Autor isn't dead. . . ."_

Somewhere in his mind, Autor added his own plea for Fakir's safety.

"_I hope Autor really is okay, like he keeps telling me he is. He acted like he was worried wondering if he was hurt bad too. And I don't want anything awful to happen to him, either! I want him and Fakir to be able to be friends again, so much. . . ."_

Autor thought he was telling Ahiru that he was fine. But as sleep completely blanketed his senses, he was no longer sure if he had actually managed to say it aloud.

xxxx

Fakir sank down on the floor against the wall, bringing his legs up near his chest. The gangsters were scattered across the modest living room wherever they pleased. The leader had even decided to claim the old and tattered couch. He was currently stretched across it, apparently dozing. As near as Fakir could tell, all the rest were asleep too.

He leaned forward, letting his bangs hide his eyes. No matter how much he thought on the subject, he could not stop being haunted when he thought of the argument with Autor and the subsequent fight on the balcony. Ahiru was right about everything turning out so wrong. And she was probably still blaming herself back at that wretched house. Fakir half-wanted to scream in her face.

_You're wrong, idiot; it's not your fault. It's mine! __**Mine.**_

And now that he was awake again, going back to sleep sounded impossible. He had not meant to do it the first time; it would have to sneak up on him once more before it could happen a second time.

"Are you alright?"

He looked up with a start. That had certainly not been one of the crooks talking. The farmer was bending down, studying him in concern.

"You look peaked, lad," he said. "Have you had anything to eat?"

Fakir blinked. Actually he hadn't, but he was only fully remembering that now. He had been far too upset to think of something like food before.

"No," he admitted. "But I'm really not hungry."

The man frowned in concern. "Most boys your age are shoveling down food like there won't be any more. Are you ill?"

_I'm sick at heart,_ Fakir thought to himself. Aloud he said, "Not really. It's just . . . been a long day and night."

"I hope you're not planning to hold off on food until you get to that gathering," the farmer said. "Haven't the people you're with eaten either?"

"I don't think so," Fakir said. Not unless they had done so away from him at the mansion. But he knew that the one appointed as his guard had not eaten anything.

"I have some leftovers from dinner," his host said now. "You need to eat something. I'll bring you some on a plate and you just eat whatever you feel like. Okay?"

Fakir regarded him in surprise. "Thanks," he said, but the farmer was already turning away and going into the kitchen.

He was hungrier than he had even believed. Just the mention of food had started his stomach growling. And when the man returned with the plate, everything looked incredible. Fakir accepted it with another thanks and began to eat.

"You were half-starved," the farmer declared, shaking his head. "Are you from around here?"

_I have no idea,_ Fakir thought, not knowing how far they had driven. He shrugged. "I fell asleep in the car," he muttered. "I'm all turned around."

"There's not another village in this direction for quite a while," he was told. "We're pretty isolated here."

"How far away is Kinkan?" Fakir asked.

The man blinked. "It's back there oh, I don't know—maybe a hundred kilometers? Maybe two hundred?" He peered at Fakir. "Are you from there?"

Fakir glanced back at the crooks. One of them stirred but did not wake up. None of the others moved. But could he take the chance that at least one of them was not eavesdropping on the conversation? If he said too much, he would put this innocent man's life in danger.

"I just wondered where it was," he said.

A slow, unconvinced nod. "Are you excited for this . . . convention thing?"

"No," Fakir said flatly.

"A bunch of people sitting around talking about their companies does sound pretty boring," the farmer said. "But maybe they'll have some good food, eh?"

"Yeah, maybe," Fakir said, his tone noncommittal.

He finished eating and handed back the empty plate. "That was good," he said.

"When you're hungry, anything tastes good," the man said with a crooked smile. He accepted the plate and pulled himself to his feet. "Now how about you try to get some sleep? You'll need to be rested for the drive tomorrow . . . if it's even possible to rest sitting up like that. I'm sorry I don't have any spare rooms to offer, but . . ."

"This is fine," Fakir said. He leaned his head against the hard wall. "I'll go to sleep if I can."

"I'll leave you alone so you can try," the farmer told him. "If you need anything, I'm in the one bedroom back there." He jerked his thumb towards a darkened hall.

Fakir nodded. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax his body.

Relaxing his mind was a far more impossible task. Even though the physical exhaustion was all the more apparent now that he had fallen into silence, his thoughts were still turning and developing and he could not seem to stop them.

"Autor," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

_If only I hadn't got angry. If only I'd listened to Autor and stayed calm a few minutes longer. If only I hadn't knocked him into that balcony when we were forced to fight. . . ._

He did not even remember sleeping. But suddenly from out of nowhere he was being kicked in the side.

"Wake up, punk," his guard growled. "It's morning. Let's get out of here."

Fakir's eyes opened slowly, in spite of the assault. Sunbeams were shining through the window, playing on the floor and on his legs. He shook his head in surprise. There was a space of time that was a complete blank to him. He must have slept, even though he had no memory of it.

He pushed himself up, stumbling unsteadily from the long hours on the hard floor. It was so quiet in the room. The other gang members had already left. And where was the farmer? Fear clenched his heart.

"Where's . . ."

"The old man's outside," the thug interrupted, suspecting Fakir's question. "He fixed the car. Now come on."

"He's going to be alright, isn't he?" Fakir's voice was harsh and demanding.

"We can't waste the time figuring out how to kill him and then doing it," was the cold reply. "Besides, he's too trusting. He doesn't suspect anything."

Fakir was not as sure of that, but he did not offer a contradiction. If they thought the farmer was not a threat, then that was a relief.

Their host was talking to the driver of the car as the two of them came outside. "Now, if at all possible, try to stay off rough roads," he said. "This car just wasn't made for backwoods travel. Where did you say this convention was?"

"I didn't say," the driver told him. "But it's a long way from here."

"I hope you have a good map," said the farmer. "I'd be happy to give you one if . . ."

"We have a good one," the gangster interrupted. "Thanks for your trouble. We'll be going now." He opened the door, climbing into the car. The second car, which had previously pulled in behind it, had already been driven out to the road so as not to be an obstruction.

Fakir did not have to be prodded further to know that he needed to get in the car now. He walked over, nodding to the farmer.

"Have a good time at your convention!" the man said. "And if you take the same road coming back, stop in and let me know how it went."

"Yeah, sure," Fakir said. He doubted that they would be coming back the same way, let alone coming back at all.

The farmer watched as the car turned around and drove out from behind the barn. As it sped off down the road, the other swiftly following, he frowned.

"I wonder if that boy is really supposed to be with them," he mused aloud. "They sure seemed to be keeping him close. And something just seemed off about the lot of those men."

He shook his head. Maybe he was just imagining things up in his solitude. The boy might just be a bit rebellious and not like the idea of going to the convention. But still, he had seemed nice enough, albeit subdued somehow. He had acted like something was deeply bothering him yet he had not wanted to say so.

Half turning to go inside the farmer said, "I wonder if I should find out if there's been any kidnappings in Kinkan Town."


	6. Anton

**Chapter Six**

"Autor? Are you okay? Wake up, please!"

Ahiru's worried voice pierced Autor's consciousness. Still half-asleep, and a bit confused, Autor forced his eyes open partway. Ahiru was kneeling on the bed next to him, gripping the comforter.

"What's wrong?" he mumbled.

"You weren't waking up!" Ahiru exclaimed. "And I thought maybe it was because of the concussion thing after all and I was worried and tried to talk to you but you didn't answer me and . . ."

Autor let his eyes drop shut. "No. . . . I think I was just in a deep sleep," he said. "One I'm not entirely removed from."

"Oh." Ahiru sighed in relief. "I'm sorry, Autor. You go ahead and sleep some more."

"Thank you," Autor slurred. He was already three-quarters of the way there.

Ahiru carefully slipped off the bed, trying to be careful not to jostle it. Autor barely felt it as he drifted back to sleep. Ahiru stepped onto the floor, quietly pulling the quilt better over Autor before crossing to the window.

It was a pretty day, she thought as she pulled back a yellowed curtain. The sun was shining through the trees at the edge of the woods. And the sky was blue and clear. Maybe, once Autor woke up, they needed to start heading back if he thought he could make it.

Where was Fakir today? Was he safe? Was he still afraid that he had killed Autor?

She looked down sadly. If only there was some way to let Fakir know Autor was okay. But the only way they could do that was if they found Fakir. And how long would it be before that happened? They only knew the direction the cars had taken and the license number of one of them.

What if they could not get in touch with Charon? Autor had said they needed help. Who would they get if Charon was not available? Would they go to the police in spite of the warnings? What was the right thing to do?

She left the window, heading back to the bed. Her stomach gave a loud growl of displeasure as she moved. She had not eaten since lunch yesterday afternoon. And unless Autor had eaten either before or soon after he and Fakir had quarreled, he had also not had dinner.

She sighed, sinking and slumping onto the mattress. Would they really be able to walk all the way back to town? They would have to go through the forest. And Autor would surely be weak from the fall and maybe from lack of food.

"Oh, why did they have to find the horses?" she bemoaned aloud. "Why did any of this have to happen?"

A slight stirring from the other bed brought her to attention with a start. Autor had moved back the quilt and was starting to sit up, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand.

"Autor!" Ahiru exclaimed, swinging her legs over the other side of the mattress and leaping up. "You're getting up now?"

"Yes," Autor said, looking over at her. "How long have you been awake?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Hey, do you remember me waking you up a while ago?" she asked.

Autor frowned, leaning back as he thought. "Vaguely, perhaps," he said. "You were worried. . . ."

"Yeah!" Ahiru nodded. "You didn't really wake up and you went back to sleep."

"I'm awake now." Autor winced, gingerly touching the back of his head.

"Are you hurting a lot?" Ahiru went over to him, wishing she could help. From Autor's expression, the spot where he had struck the ground was very tender.

"I don't particularly feel like running a marathon," Autor said.

"It must be really bad or you wouldn't even say that," Ahiru worried. "How can you walk to town like this?"

"I don't know." Autor glanced out the window. "I don't like to send you off by yourself, either. It's a long journey."

"I could do it!" Ahiru said. "I could run back down the path and get help and come back." She wrung her hands in her lap. "But . . . I'd be gone for hours. I really don't like the thought of leaving you here alone all hurt!"

"I could manage," Autor said. "I've lived on my own for years."

"Yeah, but have you been sick like this?" Ahiru retorted.

Autor sighed. "No," he admitted. "Though I had a bad fever once."

His visage darkened. Why had he said that? If Ahiru questioned him further, she would only worry more. He had tried to take care of himself that time but had ended up collapsing. The servant had come in to take care of some errands and had found him swooned on the floor.

"That's terrible!" Ahiru cried, bringing him back to the present. "What did you do?"

"I took some hot tea and went to bed," Autor said. More correctly, he had been carried to bed after having blacked out. He had been mortified upon reviving and learning from the servant what had happened. Before that illness, he could not recall ever having fainted before.

Ahiru scrunched up her face, not pleased. "What if we walked slow and took a lot of breaks?" she suggested.

"It's possible," Autor said. "But it might take all day to get home. We can't take up so much time. The longer it takes us to reach Kinkan, the further away Fakir is going to be."

Ahiru looked down, discouraged. "Yeah, that's true," she said.

Autor pushed back the sensations of pain. "I'll tell you what—let's stick to our original plan and go."

She looked up with a start. "Really, Autor?" She frowned worriedly. "I don't know how you can."

"I'll probably feel a lot better once we start walking," Autor said, though he was not sure of that at all. If he found he could not make it after all, he would have to convince Ahiru to go on ahead while he waited.

"The criminals probably took every scrap of food with them," he continued, "but let's have a look at the kitchen in case they forgot something. Then we'll leave."

"I bet they didn't forget," Ahiru mumbled.

"I doubt they would," Autor said. "But normally you would be more optimistic." He slipped into his shoes and stood, keeping hold of the bedpost for balance.

"I guess I'm not feeling it right now," Ahiru said. She tried to smile. "But some things have gone right. You're alive and not as bad off as you could be and we have another chance to save Fakir."

"We'll just have to make sure we do it right this time." Autor took a few tentative steps forward.

Ahiru hurried to his side. "Can you make it?" she asked.

"I think so," Autor said. As he reached the door he seemed surer of himself. "Yes, I can make it."

"You'd better not just be saying that," Ahiru scolded.

"I'm not," Autor said. "I mean it."

They soon discovered that the criminals had indeed taken any food that had been stored there. Ahiru turned away after the fruitless search, sighing in discouragement.

"Well, I guess that's that," she said. "We'd better go before we get any hungrier."

Autor nodded, trying not to make it too obvious that he was half-holding onto the wall for balance. "Come on," he directed.

Ahiru trailed after him. "Did you even have any dinner last night?" she asked as they made their way to the front door.

"I didn't have the chance," Autor returned. "Any appetite I might have had evaporated after the confrontation with Fakir."

"That's what I was afraid of." Ahiru came alongside him, watching as he opened the door and stepped outside. She scurried after him and was promptly greeted by the bright sun. As Autor shut the door Ahiru shielded her eyes with her hand. "Aren't you feeling really weak, Autor? Without food and having fallen and hurt yourself and . . ."

"Nevermind that." Autor walked past her and towards the woods. "If possible, we need to try to make it back to Kinkan before the onset of the warmest part of the day."

"Can we?" Ahiru exclaimed, rushing again to catch up.

Autor was already calculating in his mind. "Considering the length of the path and the average speed of a healthy human being, it is possible," he said. "But when you subtract the speed due to injury it becomes more nebulous."

"You talk like a textbook!" Ahiru groaned. "What's 'nebulous'?"

"Unclear," Autor said.

They stepped under the trees' clasped branches and into the anonymity of the woods. The sunbeams immediately became obscured by the dense foliage, which dropped the temperature to a gentle chill.

"Did you always talk like that?" Ahiru wondered.

Autor regarded her in some amusement. "My vocabulary expanded over time," he said. "No, I did not 'always' have such an ability. I did not emerge from my mother's womb speaking in full sentences, let alone speaking at all."

Ahiru stuck out her tongue at him. "Fakir says he remembers you used big words when you met him when you were kids," she said.

"Yes," Autor said. "I drove him crazy. Not that he didn't irritate me in return."

"You must be feeling pretty good if you can talk like this," Ahiru said.

Autor averted his gaze. "I suppose," he said. In actuality he was talking to try to give a sense of normalcy, as well as to try to get his mind on something besides the aches encompassing every part of his body.

"It's kind of weird that we're wandering through the forest like this," Ahiru said. "Remember, it was here that you finally told me that you think of me as a friend."

"I remember," Autor said. "And we were looking for Fakir then, as well."

"And we both fell that time," Ahiru mumbled.

Autor absently laid a hand over his stomach. He recalled that without a doubt, particularly how he had felt as though he had been punched in the abdomen after the crash. They had probably fallen farther then, but it had been down a steep hill with a large tree branch rather than the straight trip from the balcony to the ground he had taken last night, without anything to break his spill.

He stumbled to the side, nearly tripped by a tree branch half-buried in the dirt. Out of instinct he threw out his arms to catch himself, while Ahiru exclaimed in alarm.

"Autor!" she wailed, reaching to steady him. "You're going to get hurt!"

Autor went red in frustrated mortification. "I just need to be more alert," he said.

"Well, you would be if you hadn't fallen off the balcony!" Ahiru said. She shuddered at the memory. She had felt so horrified and helpless, wanting it to be a nightmare to wake up from and not reality. But no matter how she had cried and she and Fakir had called Autor's name, the nightmare had not ended. They were still in it now, and for poor Fakir it was surely far worse.

Autor's thoughts were running in the same direction. He fell silent as he and Ahiru continued the journey through the woods, pushing himself to keep going. The sooner they could get out of here, the sooner something could happen towards rescuing Fakir. Hopefully it would not be a trial to get in touch with Charon. They needed his help, not to mention that he deserved to know what had happened to Fakir.

The trees ahead began to divide, suddenly doubling their number. Autor paused, blinking at the sight. His vision corrected itself then, merging the trees back to their original amount.

"Autor?" Ahiru had stopped with him. Now she was peering at him in concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Autor replied abruptly. He began to walk again, hoping that his double vision would not return for a while. They could not afford a delay.

"Why did you stop?" Ahiru persisted, jogging after him.

"I didn't mean to," Autor said. "It happened without me thinking about it."

"Maybe we should stop and rest," Ahiru said.

"We should keep going," Autor returned.

Ahiru bit her lip, recognizing the pointlessness of protesting. "Do you think anyone might send out a search party for us?" she said.

Autor glanced to her in surprise. "I've wondered that," he admitted. "If the horses go back to the rental agency, I suppose it's possible."

"Then we might be found by someone before we get out," Ahiru said with hope.

"It wouldn't do us much good if they didn't have some form of transportation available," Autor said. "Then we would still have to walk."

"That's true," Ahiru sighed. "Autor, how are you really doing? No trying to be strong or something for my sake!"

"I can walk for a while yet," Autor said. After a short pause he added, "But I'll let you know when I need to stop."

"Well, okay," Ahiru said slowly. Fiercer she said, "You'd better!"

"I doubt I could do much else," Autor said. "When I realize I need to stop, you'll know it before I say anything."

He was unsure of how much farther they walked before he reached that point. When the double vision returned, it brought dizziness with it. He stopped again, removing his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. When he looked up, however, he still felt lightheaded.

"Ahiru," he said, slipping his glasses back on, "I think I need to stop now."

Ahiru took his arm. "I know you do!" she wailed. "There's a log right here you can sit on!" She helped him forward, crying out in alarm when he tripped and stumbled. Immediately an arm went around his waist to support him.

Somehow she half-dragged him to the fallen wood and helped lower him onto it. He half-fell on it as his knees buckled. Ahiru lost her balance at the sudden pull of weight, plopping into his lap.

Both of them went red. "Um . . ." Ahiru scrambled away and sat on the edge of the log. "I'm sorry!" she burst out.

Autor looked to her, then back to his now-empty lap. His shoulders shook as he chuckled.

Ahiru stared at him in confusion. "Autor? Are you feeling even worse than I thought?" she gasped.

"I was just thinking," Autor said, pushing up his glasses, "that would be an awkward position for Fakir to find us in. He would think something was going on for sure."

Ahiru gave an uneasy laugh. "Yeah, I guess he would," she said. "I really didn't mean to do it, Autor; I lost my balance when you fell down!"

"I know." Autor sobered with a sigh. "I shouldn't make light of it, I suppose, considering what happened last night." He reached behind himself, stiffening as he tried to rub at his aching back.

Ahiru watched him worriedly. "Will you be able to go on, Autor? Maybe I should run on ahead and see if I can find help. But I hate to leave you here! What if you get really bad off and I'm not here to help you?"

Autor closed his eyes. "If I rest here I should be fine," he said. "Yes, I think you should keep going. As long as you stay on the path, you shouldn't end up lost." Idly he wondered how far they had gone. He had tried to keep count, but sometime after the onset of the double vision he had lost track.

Ahiru clutched her skirt, her knuckles going white. "You promise not to move?" she said at last.

"Not unless the log gets too uncomfortable and I feel that I can travel around the area," Autor said. "But I won't try to go after you, no. Unless of course you don't come back in a reasonable amount of time."

"I will!" Ahiru leaped to her feet before she could change her mind again. "I'll bring help." She tried to smile. "I guess I am glad you aren't still in that creepy house. But I hope it wasn't a mistake to let you walk this much. . . ."

"Ahiru, I'm alright," Autor assured her. "I just need to rest."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "Okay then," she said. "I'm going. Just stay here!" And she turned and fled, her braid streaming out behind her.

Autor watched until she was out of sight. "Stay safe," he said quietly.

Ahiru was not sure how long she ran. She tried to keep her mind from wandering and focus only on the path ahead of her, but it was impossible not to let her thoughts turn back to Autor and also Fakir. Her heart raced in her chest.

She had to get help for Autor. They had to get back to town and Autor had to rest and they had to figure out how to save Fakir. Those were the important things right now.

The sound of a surprised horse penetrated her awareness. She gasped, falling back as a brown stallion she had not even seen ground to a halt in front of her. Her heart pounded in her ears. Now she knew at least a hint of the fear Autor had of being trampled. She breathed heavily, clutching the orange brooch at her throat.

"Ahiru?"

She looked up with a start at the voice. "Charon!" she cried.

xxxx

It was nearly noon before the cars pulled in at a gas station to the side of the road. Fakir looked up as the one he was in came to a stop by the pump.

"Get a paper while I take care of this," the driver growled at the man in the passenger seat.

"What do I do?" Fakir asked coldly. He was stiff from the long drive. Right now he wanted to get out and stretch his legs, but the thug at his side had other ideas.

"Both of us wait right here," the criminal told him.

Fakir had expected it, but he clenched his teeth in frustration. "I still don't even know what you want with me, besides that I'm supposed to be fulfilling my dad's 'debt' to you," he said. "Just when are you planning to tell me what's really up?"

"When we get to where we're going," the driver retorted. "Anton will tell you everything you need to know." He exited the car, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. As Fakir watched, he swiped a card through a slot at the pump and then reached for the gas nozzle.

Fakir did not even notice the front passenger's departure until he was returning with a copy of the regional newspaper. The grim man got back into the car, opening the paper with a flourish.

Fakir started at the sudden crackling. He leaned forward, trying to see the front page. Just supposing Ahiru and Autor had been found, maybe there would be a story about them in there somewhere. Maybe he would be able to know if they were safe . . . or if Autor was . . . _gone. . . ._

"Don't get your hopes up."

He shot a hard look at his sentry, who only gave a cruel grin. "There won't be anything about them in there. Not yet. And if they ever pop up in the paper, it'll be bad news."

"Ahiru wouldn't just stay there at the mansion," Fakir retorted. "She'd go for help."

"Or because she'd know there wasn't any point in getting help," the guard said. "She'd need to get an undertaker."

Fakir cursed under his breath. Louder he said, "You don't know Autor's dead. You didn't really look him over."

"Okay," the crook replied, "so let's suppose he's not dead. Do you really think he could walk away from that fall?" His lips pulled back in a wicked sneer. "He wouldn't be walking ever again. And you'd be the one who put him in that mess. Maybe he'd rather be dead."

Fakir's temper snapped. "Someone tampered with that balcony railing!" he yelled. "Autor wouldn't have fallen if that hadn't happened!" He lunged, his eyes flashing.

Instantly the gun was at his heart. "Get back, punk." The thug's eyes were as twin lumps of stone. "Even if that's true, you can't prove it. And you'll never have the chance to. We won't make the same mistake we made with your old man. You won't be getting away."

Fakir held still, meeting the man's gaze. Then, slowly, he drew back into his own seat.

Before long the driver was back as well. He started the car, pulling forward and away from the pumps. Fakir glowered at him.

"We've been driving for hours," he said, "and taking all the back roads possible. Where are we going? You can tell me that, can't you? It's not like I'm going anywhere you're not going."

"You'll find out soon enough," the man retorted.

The lonely dirt road they continued to take led into another forest. Fakir frowned, leaning forward in the seat. The trees were thick on both sides, all but blocking the sun. When he squinted, he could just make out shapes of cabins through the foliage.

"You guys really like the woods, don't you," he said.

No one answered. He glared, watching the buildings as they passed by.

Were Ahiru and Autor still at the mansion? Maybe they had started for home. Or maybe that was impossible. He gritted his teeth. Was it true that if Autor were alive, he would likely be paralyzed? That was too horrible to think about. Fakir ran his hands over his face.

He only realized they were arriving at their destination when the car stopped. He looked up with a start. They had parked in front of a two-story vacation house, painted white. Fakir glared at it. It _had_ to be white, like the mansion where Autor had fallen. There was no balcony that he could see, but there was a widow's walk on the roof. He raised an eyebrow at the foreign design.

"Anton's inside," the driver said as he got out. "He's waiting."

"You talked to him on the phone when he was here?" Fakir said, his voice tinged with suspicion. "How would a signal get through?"

His guard prodded him in the back with the gun. "He has a satellite phone," he said. "Now come on."

"I'm going," Fakir snarled. He opened the door, stepping onto the dirt.

The driver walked ahead and up to the house's door, where he gave a swift and determined knock. It swung open, revealing a thin and balding older man with a burn scar down the left side of his face. He studied the group with a grim expression before stepping aside, allowing them entry. "Anton's impatient," he said. "What took so long?"

"The car started acting up," was the reply. "We had to stop for the night and have it fixed."

The gang members trouped inside, keeping Fakir with them in their midst. He glanced around the well-furnished living room, studying the varying décor. Most seemed to be of Italian origin, but there were some definite German pieces as well. His eyes widened at the sight of a particular floor-length clock. Autor had one that looked identical in his replica of Drosselmeyer's study.

But if the timepiece was a shock, the cruel man who opened a door in the hall and stepped into the living room was much more of one. In an instant Fakir's memory flashed back, matching the loose black hair, merciless visage, and husky build with an old photograph he had found buried in his father's desk.

"I know you!" he burst out.

The newcomer blinked, but otherwise gave no indication of surprise. Instead he fixed Fakir with a gaze so cold it chilled the boy's blood.

"That may be," he said, "but don't think you have the advantage. I know you as well, young Fakir. And before your term here is over, you're going to wish I didn't."

"It's too late," snarled Fakir. "I already do."

The broad man snapped his fingers. Instantly the butt of the gun came down on Fakir's head. Fakir gave an involuntary cry, dropping to one knee.

"Your father had a lot of lip, just like you do," he was told. "I like my people to have minds of their own, up to a certain point. When they cross that line, they go from intelligent to a hindrance. Mark my words, Fakir—I know where your loved ones are. And I can make them pay if you don't cooperate."

"You're already doing that," Fakir spat bitterly.

"The other boy, Autor. Yes, I know." Now the man gave a beckoning gesture. Fakir was hauled to his feet by beefy hands under his arms, grasping too tight for him to struggle away. The host half-turned to re-enter the room he had just exited.

"Bring Fakir in here and leave him with me," he directed. His eyes narrowed. "We have a lot to discuss."


	7. A Growing Web

**Chapter Seven**

Ahiru slumped back on the couch, gazing sadly at her knees. "And that's what happened," she finished. "That's why Fakir is missing and why Autor is hurt." She looked back to Charon, who looked grim. "I'm so sorry, Charon! We tried, we really tried to save Fakir, but everything went so wrong!" Tears pricked at her eyes again, but she brushed them aside. "Now we don't know what to do or where he even is or how to get him back . . ."

Charon leaned forward, clasping his large hands. He and Ahiru were sitting in Autor's upstairs hall, waiting for the boy to awaken from a much-needed rest. Upon returning to Kinkan Autor had wanted to have a quick, hot shower and go to bed. By some miracle he had not fallen in the tub and had soon lain down, drifting into slumber.

He had offered to let Ahiru use his shower if she wanted, so Charon had gotten a change of clothes for her from home and she had gratefully showered and put them on. She had then gone to help Charon check the house for hearing devices. Upon finding none, they had looked in on Autor and then stayed in the upstairs corridor while Ahiru explained the whole, horrible story.

"You're just lucky the owner of those horses realized something was wrong and managed to track me down to let me know," Charon said, his face and voice severe. "You never should have tried to take on those people by yourselves."

"I know." Ahiru looked down at the floor. "I guess we thought maybe we could because of the other enemies we've had to fight. . . . Or maybe we were just so worried that we really didn't think much at all."

"Or maybe some of both." Charon straightened. "Gangsters are not like living Stories or even the crazy men who write them." His eyes narrowed. "They're an entirely different kind of evil."

"They look like regular people, but they're so horrible and mean!" Ahiru cried. "I . . . I didn't even realize people could be like that."

"Unfortunately they can." He gave Ahiru a stern look. "And I never want to hear that you and Autor tried to investigate them without me again. All of you could have been killed. Autor almost was!"

"But what about Fakir?" Ahiru exclaimed in desperation. "How are we going to save him?"

"I don't know. The license number is a place to start." Charon stood. "We should go to the police."

His words sent Ahiru leaping to her feet in alarm. "But . . . !"

"I'll tell them that the investigation has to be kept quiet," Charon said. "They need to be involved. We'll be more likely to get Fakir back safely if the proper authorities know what happened, regardless of whether the gang wants Fakir to Story-Spin for them." His shoulders sagged wearily. "And I know they must."

Ahiru stared at him. "Do you know who they are?" she asked. Charon had gone sheet-white when she had first mentioned the gang. Now she was starting to have a suspicion that it was not just because of how devastating it was in general.

Charon looked away. ". . . Yes," he said at last. "I used to pray every night that they would never come here and find Fakir. But after so many years passed, I had started to think they never would return."

Ahiru bit her lip. "Were you in the gang too?"

"No!" Charon's reply was so forceful that Ahiru rocked back in surprise. He sighed, massaging his forehead. "Fakir's father was my closest friend."

Now Ahiru was stunned. "Then . . . you must have been so sad when he . . ." She trailed off. She could not bear to think of Fakir or Autor dead. She had already experienced what it was like to try to get by without Autor, and it had shattered her heart so thoroughly that she never wanted to have to go through it again. But Charon had to miss his friend every day, after all this time. Suddenly the tears were back.

"I saw him start to hang around the gang," Charon said, his voice far away. "They used to be here in town, contrary to what Autor thought. I didn't trust any of them. I tried to convince Ambrosius to leave them alone, but he was stubborn. When they left Kinkan, he left with them."

"That's awful!" Ahiru cried.

Charon nodded. "I didn't see or hear from him until he suddenly came back on the run for his life," he said. "I remember neither of us found it strange that the gang didn't follow him back, likely because Drosselmeyer didn't want us to."

"Did they . . . want Fakir's dad to Story-Spin for them?" Ahiru asked.

"They did." Charon clenched a fist. "They forced him to write their success in heists. They believed their nearly perfect record of stealing came because of Ambrosius. I don't doubt it; he was their trump card. Of course they would want his son in their gang after his disappearance and subsequent death."

Ahiru crossed the hall to Autor's half-open door as she listened, peering through the space at her friend. Due to lingering concerns about the possible concussion, Charon had insisted that Autor leave his door open halfway so they could look in on him at varying intervals. Autor had not disagreed, which only made Charon worry, as it did Ahiru, that he was feeling ill.

"Autor," Ahiru whispered. "Please get better. . . ."

She slumped against the door, feeling the anguish welling up inside her. She had rarely felt so helpless.

"I have a friend in the police force," Charon spoke now. "I think I should go see him, or else ask him to come here. You could tell him more than I could."

Ahiru gave a weak, resigned nod. "I guess," she said. "Maybe Autor will be awake by then too."

Charon nodded. "I'll go down the street and make the call, just in case the telephone here is tapped," he said. "Do you think you'd be able to describe any of the gang members to him? That could be helpful too."

"I think I could," Ahiru said. "It'd be hard to forget what they looked like. But . . . it's their eyes I remember best." She shivered. "They were so cold. . . ."

Charon looked somber. "I still remember their eyes," he said, his voice dark. "After all these years, they've probably gotten even worse."

With that he went down the stairs, leaving Ahiru standing at Autor's door. She sighed, giving him a last, sad look before turning away.

"I wish I could sleep too," she mumbled. "I'm so tired, but I'm wide awake. I'm too worried to sleep!"

She slumped onto the couch, grabbing a pillow to hug.

xxxx

Autor woke shortly before the policeman arrived. Ahiru leaped to her feet when she heard movement in the room, hopeful and relieved. "Autor?" she called.

He came to the doorway in his pajamas, pushing up his glasses. "What is it?" he asked.

Ahiru skipped over to him. "Are you feeling any better?" she said.

"Yes, I think so," Autor said. "My back still aches, but that should stop before long."

"Good!" Ahiru took his arm. "You should get dressed. Charon called a policeman friend and he's on his way over!"

Autor stiffened. "What?"

It was hard to say what he was more concerned about—that the police had been called or that a stranger would suddenly be arriving in his house.

Ahiru bit her lip. "Well, he thought it was the best thing," she said. "We could talk to him here and stuff. Oh! We didn't find any bug things in the house."

Autor sighed. "I hope there weren't any in the telephone," he said.

"Charon called on a payphone," Ahiru assured him. "Maybe the policeman can find out if there's any bug things in your phone."

"Maybe." Autor peered at her. "How long ago was he on his way?"

Ahiru rocked back and forth. "I'm not sure," she said. "It seems like Charon came back about fifteen minutes ago and said the policeman was coming right then."

Autor's eyes widened. "Then he should be here any minute! Ahiru, excuse me." He shut the door and went to the closet in haste to retrieve something to wear.

He was dressed moments before the law officer arrived. At the knock on the door, he was able to let the man inside. They gathered in the living room to discuss the case.

The policeman—Detective Kirsch—was serious and dedicated. He listened to Ahiru and Autor with a grim countenance, writing on a notepad as they spoke. Every now and then he asked questions, which they tried their best to answer.

He was especially concerned over the descriptions they gave of the gang members. "Do you remember seeing this man with them?" he asked the teens, pulling a worn photograph out of his pocket.

Ahiru cringed at the sight of the muscular, dark-haired man with unforgiving eyes. "No!" she said emphatically. "He wasn't there at all."

Autor nodded in agreement. "I would remember seeing someone such as he," he said.

Kirsch nodded as well, not seeming surprised. "His name is Anton Schuster," he said, replacing the picture. "He's the leader of one of the most notorious gangs in Germany. Police all over the country have been trying to catch them for years."

Charon had also drawn back at the image. He looked to the officer with barely concealed alarm. "And you think this gang might be the one that has Fakir?"

"It's a strong possibility," Kirsch said. "We know they have operated in Bavaria, and even near Kinkan."

Charon lowered his gaze. "It must be them," he said. "I've seen that man before. He was in the gang that Fakir's father was with. I don't recall knowing that he was the leader, but it doesn't surprise me."

Kirsch's eyes narrowed. "I'll see to it that any and all known members of the gang are charged with suspicion of abduction," he said.

Ahiru wrung her hands in her lap. "What will they do with Fakir?" she wailed. "What if they decide they don't want him any more?"

Kirsch fixed her with a look that said everything she was thinking but was afraid to voice. "They're ruthless," he said. "If Fakir becomes useless to them, they won't hesitate to get rid of him—most likely making it look like an accident . . . or suicide."

"No!" Ahiru leaped to her feet, her heart's speed increasing at the horrible words. "We have to save him! We _have_ to!"

"The police will do everything they can," Kirsch told her, "but right now our leads are slim. The only road leading away from that mansion goes into very rural, isolated territory. The first house isn't for many kilometers."

"Maybe if we talked to the people on that road, we could find something out," Ahiru said, both hopeful and pleading. "Maybe someone would have seen them!"

"It's possible," Kirsch agreed. "But I'm afraid it's out of our jurisdiction. I'll put in a call to the state police along that way."

"Will they be able to get started right away?" Ahiru asked.

"Someone should be available," Kirsch said. "Not only does it concern a gang we've been trying to arrest for years, but there will be an active abduction charge against them now. Time is of the essence."

He spoke with them for a while longer before departing. When he had gone, Ahiru found herself even more wound up and agonized than before he had come.

"We can't just sit here and wait for the police to find stuff out!" she exclaimed, looking pleadingly to Charon. "Couldn't we get started talking to people on that road?"

"We really shouldn't," Charon said, but the truth was in his eyes. He wanted to get involved as well; he only balked because of fear for the teens' safety. Ahiru was directly his responsibility, and he felt accountable for Autor too.

Autor was family in every sense of the word. The boy had no one to look after him other than the servant who checked in each day. In taking care of his family's estate, he had long ago been forced to grow up far more than he should have so soon. That showed clearly, as much in his bursts of boyish enthusiasm and fascination as in his usual, serious persona. And although he insisted he did not need anyone and that he could manage fine on his own, Charon had sometimes seen a longing in his eyes as he had watched Charon interact with his adopted children. Autor still wanted—and needed—a parental figure in his life. It was just the last thing he would ever admit.

"We wouldn't have to do anything dangerous," Autor chimed in, leaning forward on the couch. "All we would need to do is question people along the road. Maybe we would be able to get a sense of where the gang might be going. Then we could alert the police in that area and go there to wait for a break in the case."

"Maybe we'd even find Fakir!" Ahiru said.

Charon frowned deeply. "I can't walk you two right into the lions' den," he said. "I know too well what these people are like. And now you've both had a taste of their evil." He looked from Ahiru to Autor and back again. "I don't doubt that they would be ruthless enough to kill you on sight if they saw either of you."

Ahiru flinched. "But . . ." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I know I can't just stay around and wait for something to happen. What if the police can't find anything right away? The more people looking, the better chance there is of getting Fakir back soon!"

"Experience matters too," Charon said. "You and Autor don't know how to handle criminals. The police are trained for that purpose."

"What if they find out we called the police?" Ahiru worried. "They said they'd know!"

Autor stiffened. "Could they have allies in honest professions, such as the police?" he said. "If one officer is really a gang member, he could report on whether or not the police are being involved in Fakir's abduction."

Charon's eyebrows knitted. "It is possible," he admitted. "I wouldn't put it past them."

"Then we _can't_ just stay here!" Ahiru cried. "What if that person makes it so that there won't be any investigation at all?"

"If he could see to it that he would be put on the case, he could fabricate unhelpful and useless information from the people on the road," Autor said.

"This is only speculation," Charon said, but it was clear that he was troubled. He stood, crossing to the doorway. "You two must be starved. I'll fix dinner and we'll decide what to do while we eat."

"I'm not hungry," Ahiru moaned.

"Just wait until you have food in front of you," Charon said. He glanced to Autor. "Is it alright if I use your kitchen, Autor?"

Autor nodded. "Yes." He sighed. Charon was right—about the food, at least. He himself was still feeling weak. As much as he tried to push himself without nourishment at times and insisted that he could manage fine without it, he had discovered that sometimes his mind would noticeably clear after eating. And he felt in such a dither right now that he was willing to try it. Anyway, he really was hungry.

"I'll have something ready before long," Charon promised as he entered the kitchen.

Autor sighed, easing his weary body back into the soft couch. He removed his glasses, massaging his eyes. Ahiru watched him.

"I think Charon will let us go," she said. "He really wants to himself."

"I can see that," Autor said. "But his concern for us could prompt him to never agree."

"If we promise to stay out of danger, he might give in," Ahiru said.

"The problem is, danger might find us," Autor said. "We don't necessarily have to go looking for it in order to find it."

Ahiru looked down. "Yeah, I guess," she mumbled.

Autor replaced his glasses, looking over at her. "Ahiru." He straightened, but continued to rest against the couch. "Somehow we will get Fakir back. Even if that means waiting for the police to find him." His voice lowered. "Although I really don't like that idea either."

A hopeful smile began to creep over Ahiru's features. "So does that mean we'll be able to look for Fakir too?"

Autor sighed. "The decision is Charon's," he said. "I don't want another well-intentioned fiasco, as I know you don't."

Ahiru dropped her hands into her lap. "So you're willing to just wait?" she wailed.

"Yes, if that is what's best." Autor leaned forward. "We're out of our element in this situation."

"So's Fakir," Ahiru said sadly.

Autor frowned. Ahiru was certainly right. But that did not mean they should be actively involved. Their failure the previous night had badly shaken him. Autor found himself at a complete loss, especially when he combined that with the warning that the gangsters might shoot on sight. He was not a coward, albeit he did not want to die, either. And there was no sense in plunging himself and Ahiru into danger when they did not even know what they were doing.

Still, just asking people on the road if Fakir had been seen should not be dangerous. Fakir was surely far away by now. And Autor really did not know that he could stand doing absolutely nothing at all to save him.

"I wish I had your strength," Ahiru said at last.

Autor looked to her in surprise. "My . . . strength?" he repeated.

Ahiru nodded. "And your willpower. I'd be out there right now if it wasn't for what you and Charon have been saying."

"I confess, right now I'm at a crossroads," Autor said. "Part of me does want to go out. The other part feels that it would only make everything worse and we should stay entirely out of the way."

Ahiru slumped back into the couch. "What if Charon can't decide what we should do?" she said.

"He'll decide," Autor said. "And we'll abide by that decision."

Ahiru looked down, tracing a pattern on the couch cushion with her finger. "I've never heard you like this," she said. "I mean, usually you act like you're so in control and everything."

Autor stared off at the unlit fireplace. ". . . I actually believed we could save Fakir last night," he said. "I was counting on it. But when we failed so horrendously . . ." He shook his head. "I realized there are other ways to completely blunder aside from writing a Story wrong."

Ahiru bit her lip. Slowly she moved closer to Autor. "I wonder if failing hurt you even more than it hurt me," she whispered.

Autor looked up at her. "Once again I didn't take my own advice," he said. "I warned Fakir against becoming too confident in his powers. Yet after our victories I had started to think we could handle whatever was thrown at us. I wasn't ready for such a failure. Now I don't know if we should or even could be the ones to personally bring Fakir home."

"I don't know, either," Ahiru said.

"Nor do I," Charon spoke as he entered the room. The teens looked up with a start. He walked over, setting a metal tray of delicious-smelling food in front of them. "But I know that I can't go back to work with my son missing. After we eat and rest, we'll go question some of the people on the road. Even if the police get to them first, I want to talk with them too. There are questions we might think of that the police wouldn't." Such as _How did Fakir seem when you saw him? Was he well fed? Cold? Agonized? Bitter?_ Charon had to know. Any bit of information about Fakir was welcomed and needed by him, whether or not it would directly help the investigation.

Both Ahiru and Autor stared at him in a mixture of surprised shock. Then Autor turned to Ahiru with a hint of a smile.

"So it's been decided," he said. "And we'll abide by that decision."

Ahiru cheered for joy. As she looked to the food, her stomach loudly announced its impatience.

"Thank you, Charon!" she exclaimed. "And you're right, I'm hungry now! This looks great!"

Charon chuckled as she dove into dinner.

Autor watched her in amusement and disbelief before moving to take his share. "Thank you," he said as he looked up at Charon. _For this meal . . . and everything else._

Charon just nodded. "Eat as much as you want," he said before claiming his own portion. "There's plenty."

xxxx

Fakir stood glaring at the hated man from his father's photograph in the latter's office. The mobster's walls and carpet were all red—fitting for a murderer, Fakir bitterly thought—and he was standing at his desk, looking Fakir up and down. Fakir was glowering in defiance, his hands at his sides.

"You certainly look like Ambrosius's son," Anton said at last. "You have the same steel in your eyes."

"My dad had a picture of you in his desk," Fakir spoke. "I hated that photograph. It scared me to death when I saw it. My dad wouldn't tell me who you were when I asked him. Now I know why."

"And why was that?" Anton asked. His voice was dark, yet somehow indifferent. He did not care what the reason had been, but he wanted to hear Fakir's response to his question.

"He didn't want me to know anything about his other life," Fakir said. "Maybe he was afraid I'd want to join your flunkies when I was older."

"Or maybe he was ashamed of having strayed from an upright, righteous life?" Anton suggested. He gave a nod, mostly to himself. "Ambrosius was one of my best men. His departure cost me a great deal. I've never forgiven him for that." He looked Fakir directly in the eyes. "I expect great things from you, young Fakir. Particularly since you don't have the power to go against me."

He walked around the desk and pulled the leather chair back. "Come and sit," he said.

Fakir narrowed his eyes. Giving the wretch a cold stare, he slowly walked forward and around him to the chair. "You know I could pull open any one of these drawers," he said as he sat down.

"While I'm right here? I trust you to not be completely stupid." Anton tapped the blank sheet of paper he had placed on the desk. "Show me your gift."

Fakir stiffened, looking from the paper and the nearby quill pen to Anton. "What?" he demanded. His heart began to pound faster. _These crooks knew about Story-Spinning? How? Why?_

"Your father wrote things that came true," Anton said. "It's in your family line." He crossed his arms. "I want to see if you have harnessed the same power."

Now Fakir's palms were clammy. "My father?" he repeated. He felt as though his mind had gone blank. Perhaps this should not be such a shock to him, but he had never once thought that his father had the ability to Story-Spin. The man had never even seemed to show an interest in writing. Though, as Fakir thought about it, he seemed to remember that Ambrosius had always shown concern when Fakir had written. His mother had shrugged it off, not seeing any harm in it, but his father had never lightened. Had it been because he had been forced to Story-Spin for these gangsters for years and knew what kinds of things Stories could bring about?

"You're a smart boy," Anton was saying now. "I know you have the intelligence to figure it out, and it looks like you're doing that right now." He took the quill out of the inkwell and held it in front of Fakir. "Write!" he commanded.

Fakir snapped out of his trance. "Write what?" he retorted.

"Make something happen to something in this room," Anton said. He reached into his cream-colored suit jacket, removing a revolver. "But if you try to kill or incapacitate me, I'll have one of my men back in Kinkan kill someone else you love before you've finished the first word."

"How do I even know you're really watching them?" Fakir snapped. His mouth was dry.

"The police were called," Anton told him. "Your adopted father decided that was best." He crossed to the desk and opened his laptop, which was situated to the side.

Fakir's eyes widened at the image on the screen. It had been received in an email program and was time-stamped for that very day. Charon was standing outside Autor's house, speaking to a police officer.

"I have a sniper watching him and the girl Ahiru." Anton pushed the laptop shut again. "At a signal from me, he will shoot to kill. Five minutes later a photograph of the corpse will be sent to my email address."

Horror and bile were rising in Fakir's throat. He swallowed hard, pushing them back. "Why . . . why is he at Autor's place?" he rasped. "If Autor's dead, why . . ."

"They brought the body back and left it at the home while the servant was called to do with it as she would." Anton's eyes narrowed. "I could show you a photograph of that, if you want proof."

Now Fakir's hands were shaking. "No," he managed to say.

His thoughts were crashing together. So Autor was really dead then? He supposed he had truly believed it, yet at the same time he had clung to a desperate thread of hope. And now that hope was being ripped away from him. Autor was dead. Ahiru had to be devastated. And she and Charon were being watched every moment. Fakir squeezed his eyes shut, a hand flying up to massage the bridge of his nose.

"I thought so," Anton's voice came through the confusion and anguish. "Seeing the body after you pushed him to his death was more than enough for you. You wouldn't be able to handle seeing it again."

Fakir's eyes flew open. "I didn't know it would happen!" he snarled. "I didn't have any idea that Autor was going to fall!"

"That may be, but I don't care." Anton regarded the teen without pity. "Write."

Fakir looked down at the sheet of paper. What was he to do? What could he do, other than what he was being ordered to do? There was too much at stake.

Unless maybe he could write Ahiru and Charon out of that horrible mess. . . . But he had no guarantee that the Story would cooperate with his wishes. His powers were still so raw and unrefined, as Autor had told him during their most recent training session.

Their _last_ training session.

The gun was still being pointed at him. "If I see anything suspicious being written, I'll shoot your hand off," Anton said. "Then you won't be of any use to anyone."

"Including you," Fakir said.

"Do you want to take the risk?" Anton said. His voice was calm, but as a knife. "You wouldn't have the chance to help your loved ones. And I would have them killed for being too involved."

Fakir clenched his teeth. He could not put them at further risk. He had to play along for now and try to think how to get out of this nightmare without bringing them harm.

He reached over, dipping the quill in the inkwell. As he brought it to the paper he took a quick glance around the room.

"_The vase on the pedestal at the back of the room began to levitate,"_ he wrote.

Anton was right there, examining every word. He looked to the object with expectance, keeping the gun poised to fire at Fakir's right hand.

At first nothing happened. But then, slowly, the vase began to rise several centimeters into the air. Anton watched it, pleased yet not willing to fully accept the test just by itself. He tapped Fakir's hand with the gun. "Now bring it down," he ordered. "Without damaging it."

Fakir's lip curled. It was tempting to write that it crashed, but he obediently scrawled that it lowered itself to the pillar without so much as a crack—which it did.

Anton continued to lean over the desk with his weapon. "Show me two more examples," he ordered.

Again and again Fakir consented, hating himself more with each letter and character. By revealing his gift he was digging a deep pit for himself, one that was only going to be more difficult to get out of the further down he went. But if he could keep Charon and Ahiru from being killed, it was worth it. Even if in the end he went to prison with the gang he would say it had been worth it.

At last Anton straightened, giving a thoughtful nod in response to Fakir's work. "You do have the gift," he said. "Likely as strongly as your father, if not more."

Fakir slumped back, dropping the quill into the inkwell with a dull _thunk._ "So what now?" he asked.

"Now, you should eat." Anton crossed to the door, placing the revolver inside his suit jacket. "Then we will discuss plans for the next few days."

Fakir got up from the desk, wiping his hands on his pants. "Great," he muttered. "I can't wait."


	8. Disturbing News

**Notes: Originally they were supposed to travel in a carriage down the road. But because of the length of the road and the problem of resting the horses every little while, I determined it would be far wiser for them to take a car. Hence, Charon now has a driver's license.**

**Chapter Eight**

For the second time in as many days, a vehicle bumped along the path through the woods. This time, instead of a carriage it was a car, hired from just inside the city gates. The time it would take to travel by carriage would take far too long, Charon had told Ahiru and Autor, especially considering how often they would need to stop and rest the horses. And he _did _possess a driver's license, albeit he rarely needed to make use of it.

Autor had been quite agreeable to taking a car, and Ahiru certainly did not have an objection. They needed to hurry.

Both Autor and Ahiru were in the back. Charon had insisted that Autor try to conserve his strength and rest on the trip, which Autor was finding was difficult to do as the car rocked from side to side and went over bumps large and small. After lying across the seat for a few minutes he sat up in irritation.

"It is not possible to sleep in this," he declared, "or even to simply rest while conscious."

Ahiru bit her lip. "Charon and I were really worried about you coming along," she said. "But we didn't want you home alone, either."

"I wouldn't have stayed behind. Particularly when Charon doesn't know how long we'll be away." Autor glanced out the window at the passing scenery. Still, even though he was looking directly at it, he barely comprehended what he was gazing at.

Ahiru averted her eyes. That was true. Charon had determined that it could take a while to visit everyone who might have information, and that depending on what they learned, they actually might go somewhere else as Autor had suggested and wait for the case to break. They had packed a couple of bags each, tying them to the luggage rack on the car roof.

"I wonder where they're going," she mumbled.

Autor was silent for a moment. "If they're planning to orchestrate some robberies, they'll probably want a large town or even a city," he said.

Ahiru looked up with a start. "We might all go to a big city?" she exclaimed. "I've never even been anywhere bigger than Kinkan . . . well, except for Mytho's kingdom, but I've always thought a big city would be different than that."

"It's very likely that we'll end up in a city, if we're able to follow them around via any clues we might receive," Autor said. "They acted too polished to be from an old-fashioned town such as Kinkan."

Ahiru wrung her hands. "Maybe we'll get lost," she said.

"We'll be fine," Autor said. "But we might have to take the subway in the city," he mused now. "It should be faster than waiting in the probable traffic jams."

"I wonder what the subway's like," Ahiru said. "We've been on trains, but not subways."

"It's quicker and more efficient," Autor said. He sounded a bit excited by the thought of trying the unfamiliar means of transportation.

Traveling in the car interested him as well. Now that he had determined sleep was not possible he was drinking in the ride, wanting to enjoy it as much as he could. The other time he had been in an automobile it had been very difficult to focus on it at all, as he and Ahiru had been in the process of being abducted.

He fell silent. From his concentrated expression, something was on his mind. He shifted, trying to think how to say it.

"Something bothers me," he blurted.

Ahiru blinked. "What do you mean, Autor?"

As they went over a particularly jarring bump she reached up to grab her escaping white straw hat. She liked to wear it during their rare travels; the last time she could recall donning it was when they had journeyed to Mytho's kingdom.

Autor pushed up his slipping glasses. "The gang members never checked to see if I was dead," he said. "And they knew you were very much alive. They had at least one potential witness to their crimes. Were they really leaving us for dead? Or did they have something possibly even more diabolical in mind?"

Ahiru tensed. "What else could there be?" she wailed.

"Think about this," Autor said. "I don't want to scare you, Ahiru, but what if they thought they would win either way? If we both died in the cold and without help, then that would eliminate the problem of Fakir's friends knowing too much.

"On the other hand, if you survived, they could continue to use you as leverage and threaten Fakir with your life if he didn't cooperate with them." He narrowed his eyes. "They've already seen what he'll do to try to keep you safe. And they know that he is not rebellious like his father, wanting a dangerous lifestyle. Maybe whether you died or not, they would act like you were alive and that Fakir had to help them to save you."

Ahiru gripped a handful of her yellow dress. She did not want to consent that it could be possible. She did not want to believe that they would be so evil. But after what she had already seen, it did seem like something plausible. They had done terrible things with her to get Fakir to do what they wanted. The memory of the cold guns' barrels against her head was still fresh in her mind.

"What about you?" she demanded. "That one awful gangster just . . . just _kicked_ you and said you were dead! But he never even checked!"

"They probably want Fakir to think I'm dead, whether they believe I am or not," Autor said. "With Fakir in such an agonized, vulnerable state, his mind might not be as clear and it could add to his agreeability to do what they want."

"That's so cruel!" Ahiru burst out. "Fakir will feel worse and worse each day if he thinks you're dead! Especially since he's probably still blaming himself!"

"I know." Autor frowned. "There's nothing we can do about it, not until we can save Fakir."

"Maybe we should put a story in the paper or something," Ahiru said. "It wouldn't mention the gangsters or anything like that. It could just talk about some awful accident at the mansion and say that you're okay. Fakir might see it!"

"Our enemies might see it too," Autor pointed out. "There is a chance that they're aware of every move we make even without the bugs, but if they aren't we shouldn't tip them off."

Ahiru swallowed hard. "You mean if they knew, they might try to kill you?" she quavered.

"Or all of us. We don't know how long their patience will last, even if they want at least you alive." Autor shook his head. "It's too much of a risk. It's better that we get away without letting anyone know."

"Nothing was even said about us being gone from school for maybe a while," Ahiru said.

"Yes. That was on purpose." Autor pushed up his glasses. "There's a chance we might come back soon. But if we don't, things have been left to look as though we're still missing."

"I don't like making people worry," Ahiru frowned. "Lilie and Piké will . . ."

"Oh, Lilie doesn't matter," Autor said, unable to control his impatience. "She doesn't really care for you, Ahiru. I admit, I do think Piké does. But she'll have to stay in suspense along with everyone else." He sighed. "Of course, there isn't that problem where I'm concerned."

Ahiru looked down. She wanted to protest and say that of course people would care what happened to Autor and be worried. But she knew that Autor was probably right. Many would not care, and those who did would not worry so much as to lose sleep over it.

"Don't feel badly about it," Autor said. "It doesn't matter. They don't like me, but I don't think a great deal of them, either."

"I know." Ahiru looked up at him again. "I wonder how far we have to go. . . ."

"We haven't even passed the mansion yet," Autor said. "It should be coming up before long, however."

When it did, both of them gazed at it as they passed by. It stood just as it had before, cold and lonely, a ghost of the past that had become the setting for a modern tragedy. The broken balcony was at the front of the house, on its right. Ahiru squeezed her eyes shut and looked away.

". . . You said maybe they know what we're doing even without the bug things," she said softly. "Do you think we're being followed or something?"

Autor sighed. "I don't know. There's clearly no one behind us; they would never be able to hide a noisy vehicle on this road. And I doubt they could keep up if they hid among the trees. But there could be more than one spy, and maybe they're very resourceful. One might move forward amid the foliage on one side of the road while another advances on the opposite side. Maybe as long as they can see our tire tracks in the dirt they're confident that they won't lose us.

"Of course, it's only speculation," he added, "and it might not be true at all. I just don't want us to become over-confident that all is well when it might not be in the least."

Ahiru searched his serious eyes, worried. "If it is true, what do we do then?" she whispered.

For a moment Autor was silent. "We'll figure that out if it happens," he said at last.

Ahiru could only give a weak nod.

The rest of the ride proceeded largely in silence. Both of them gazed out the windows, lost in their thoughts and barely seeing the scenery. When the car came to a stop they started to attention. There was a house on the right.

Charon glanced back at them. "We've finally come into a village," he said. "This farm seems to be on the outskirts."

"They must have come this way!" Ahiru exclaimed. She leaped up in her haste to get out and go to the cottage's front door and promptly banged her head on the ceiling. "Ow! It's the only road there is!" she said in one breath as she sank back down, holding a hand to her head. Autor watched her in disbelief.

"Just because they passed through doesn't mean that anyone saw them," Charon cautioned as he opened the driver's door and climbed onto the ground. But his longing for the hopeful possibility was clear in his eyes.

Ahiru held onto the door's inside handle as she maneuvered to solid ground. Autor exited the other side, trying to ignore the vague feeling of dizziness that came over him at the sudden movement. They were about to start walking towards the house when the front door opened and an older man stepped out.

"Hello!" he called with a wave. "Is there something I can do for you folks?"

"We hope so!" Ahiru declared.

Charon walked forward to meet him halfway, pulling a picture out of his pocket. "We're looking for my son Fakir," he said. "He was forcefully taken last night by a gang of criminals." He held the photograph up for the farmer to see.

The other man's eyes widened. As he rocked back, his complexion whitened. "I was afraid something was wrong," he said. "I _knew_ something didn't seem right. I tried to find out if any kids had been taken from Kinkan Town, but there weren't any news stories about it and I wondered if I was just imagining things. . . ."

"Then you have seen Fakir?" Ahiru interrupted, her eyes shining with a new level of hope.

"Yes, indeed." The farmer shook his head. "He and this odd group showed up with car trouble last night. They claimed they were going to a convention and taking him with them as a favor to some friend. He didn't deny it, but he acted funny, like something was wrong. I tried to make myself think he was probably just some rebellious teenager, but . . ."

"Wait a minute," Autor broke in. "The police were called about this. A local officer said he was going to call the state police in this area and have them question everyone on this road. Haven't any officers been here yet?"

"No one's been here since the group left, until you came," was the reply.

Charon frowned. "The police aren't acting as swiftly as I thought they would," he said.

Autor exchanged a look with Ahiru. He had a different theory as to what was behind this. From Ahiru's sinking expression, she was afraid he was right.

"Maybe they just started at the other end," the farmer offered. "It looks like we have a lot to talk about. I'm Lukas Mueller. Why don't you all come inside?" He gestured to the house. "I'll be happy to tell everything I know."

"Oh thank you!" Ahiru exclaimed. "We just have to find Fakir! Anything you can tell us could help."

"I just wish I could've got him to tell me what was really going on," Mr. Mueller lamented as they headed up the old walk and through the still-open door. "He was pretty close-lipped about it."

Charon was silent for a moment. "He may have been trying to protect you," he said.

"Eh?" Mr. Mueller looked confused. "Protect me? From what?"

"If you knew the truth, you might have been killed," Charon said. He gave a heavy sigh. "Fakir would far rather stay in danger by himself instead of dragging anyone else into it with him."

"Especially after what happened last night," Ahiru mumbled, looking down.

Mr. Mueller's gaze darted back and forth between them and to Autor. "Why?" he said in concern. "What happened?"

"Autor was almost killed by those horrible people!" Ahiru cried. "And Fakir blames himself for it!"

"I don't know why he needs to know about that," Autor muttered to her. He looked slightly red. Unless necessary, he did not like having his injuries broadcast. It made him feel weak.

Mr. Mueller was horrified. "You don't say," he said. "And to think, I had the lot of murderers all right here in my house!"

He shook his head, sinking into a worn couch. "No wonder the poor boy looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders," he said. "To him, he probably really did." He gestured at the furniture. "Please sit down."

His guests did just that. Charon and Autor took chairs, while Ahiru opted for the couch.

"Tell us everything that happened, from the beginning," Autor requested, leaning forward on the chair. "There could be important clues in even the most seemingly insignificant information."

Mr. Mueller rubbed the back of his neck. "I'll do my best to remember everything," he said. "And I sure hope something of it will be of use. That poor boy. If I'd only known! . . ."

"You couldn't have gone against them on your own," Charon said gravely. "They're deadly."

"I suppose so," Mr. Mueller sighed. "But still . . ."

"The best way you can help Fakir is by telling us all that you can remember, to the best of your ability," Autor said. "Then we might be able to do something."

"Alright then," Mr. Mueller said. "It started when I heard this knock on my door late at night. . . ."

xxxx

Fakir blankly watched as the gangsters started getting up from the table where they had been having their conference. His mind was all a whirl, filled with the information he had learned about their plans. It was nothing he had not expected, really; Anton seemed to have his finger in several illegal pies. One branch of his operations focused on organized crime rackets. Another, the one Fakir was stranded in, was the branch that mainly dealt with robbery and extortion.

He looked down at his hands. Several large-scale heists were planned for the ensuing weeks, and he was expected to Story-Spin for every one of them. If he did not cooperate with them, Anton had made it very clear that he would have another of Fakir's loved ones killed in cold blood. He might even have the body delivered so Fakir could see in person.

He clenched his teeth. He could not risk their lives, but what about all the other lives he would ruin by helping with robberies? And what if something went wrong and he was ordered to Story-Spin a murder? Anton had said that it could happen, yet even if he had not, Fakir would have thought of it.

Wasn't there some way to get out of this without basically signing Ahiru's and Charon's death certificates? They would never want him to do this. How far was he willing to go to keep them safe? Would he assist with robbery? Murder? Would he become a murderer to extend their lives? If he Story-Spun a murder, that was as good as killing someone with a gun or a knife.

_I don't know how to get out of this,_ he prayed in desperation. _Does it have to be one or the other? Do I have to let my loved ones die to save some nameless strangers? Do I have to let them die to save my loved ones?_

"Hey, punk."

He started as a revolver prodded his shoulder. He looked back with cold, unfriendly eyes, meeting the heartless gaze of his guard.

"Get up," the thug commanded. "We have to get going."

"What are you talking about?" Fakir retorted in defiance. "Go where?"

The man looked annoyed enough to strike Fakir on the head with the butt of the gun, but he restrained himself. "We're part of the group that's going on ahead," he said. "You remember the boss said some of us would be going first, don't you?"

Fakir clenched his fists. "Yeah, I remember," he said.

"So come on. We're checking out the site for the first robbery. We have to be there by tomorrow." Again he poked Fakir with the weapon.

The boy glared at it as he abruptly stood. Without a word he stormed past, heading for the door.

"You've been given a choice opportunity, you know."

Fakir stiffened at these words. Again he looked over his shoulder, his eyes flashing and demanding elaboration. "'A choice opportunity'?" he spat. "Robbing and killing people is 'a choice opportunity'?" He turned completely around, facing the sentry head-on. "I don't see anything 'choice' about it. I don't _have_ a choice."

"If you wanted, you could become the head of our empire some day," the thug smirked. "Your powers make you one of the most powerful guys in the world."

"I never asked for this power," Fakir said, his voice cutting the air like a knife. "I wouldn't even use it if it wasn't to protect people. To do what your boss is ordering is a mockery of everything I stand for. To use my power for something like this is nothing short of barbaric, cruel, and devilish." The words rolled off his tongue without him fully thinking. Then he stiffened, recalling what Autor had said to him in their confrontation.

"To use it to protect people is a waste," the guard sneered at him. "But you'll still be doing that."

"I know—trying to keep Ahiru and Charon from being killed." Fakir clenched a fist. "They'll be devastated when they hear about this."

"They'll never know." The sentry began to step closer, his gun pointed directly at Fakir. "Who's going to tell them that you're a criminal now? _You_ sure can't."

Fakir glowered, even as the words cut him hard and shook him to the core. Was he really a criminal? Would he be considered as such? Or would he be thought of as an innocent victim in this mess, forced to obey with his loved ones' lives at stake? Would he be let off under the circumstances? Even if he were, would _he_ consider himself an innocent victim, or innocent at all?

"You're wrong about not having a choice, young Fakir."

Both looked up with a start. Anton had been observing the exchange and now had come over, his hands placed behind his back.

"You could choose to let them die so they won't have any chance of finding out. And then you could turn your pen on yourself, if you wanted." Anton watched Fakir carefully for his reaction. He was not surprised or disappointed.

Fakir cursed him. "I won't just stand by and let you kill them," he vowed. "Especially not for a stupid reason like that. And killing myself won't help anything."

"Then you know what you must do." Anton regarded him with heartless eyes. "Be on that aircraft."

"I'll be on it," Fakir vowed.

_But you'd better watch yourself,_ he added silently as he turned and was herded out the door by the guard. _Because if I find a way to break free of this Hell and save Ahiru and Charon at the same time, I'll take it in an instant. And then you'll be going down. You and your evil empire._

xxxx

Ahiru, Autor, and Charon were all deeply disturbed and worried by Mr. Mueller's account of Fakir's and the gangsters' visit. As the recount drew to a close they exchanged looks of alarm and horror.

"Poor Fakir," Ahiru wailed. "He's stuck with those awful people!" She wrung her hands. "And the police haven't even come. Aren't they going to find him and get him back? Detective Kirsch said they would start on the case right away!"

"He said he thought they could," Charon said, but from his grim visage the same doubts were sinking into his heart that already plagued the teens.

Mr. Mueller looked to each one in turn. "I wish I had something more to tell you good people," he said. "I don't know where they're going at all, just that it's a long ways from here."

Charon stood. "You've been helpful," he said. "Do you have a telephone? It's time I had another conversation with my friend." He frowned. "If something isn't being done, I want him to find out why."

"Wait!" Autor exclaimed, getting to his feet as well. He swayed from the sudden motion, but threw out his arms for balance.

Ahiru leaped up now, her eyes wide in both worry and confusion. "What's wrong?" she asked, reaching to steady Autor if he needed it.

Autor was too focused on the reason for his concern to respond. "How well do you trust Kirsch?" he asked Charon.

The man's eyes widened slightly then narrowed. "Very well," he said. "We've known each other for years. You aren't suggesting that he didn't even make the call, are you, Autor?"

"It's possible," Autor said. "Just suppose that the gang has a mole on the police force. It could be anyone."

Ahiru gave him a bewildered look. "What do moles have to do with anything?" she cried. "And why would they let moles be police officers? I mean, Drosselmeyer's Story is over and animals aren't . . ." She trailed off, turning red at the look Mr. Mueller was giving her. "Nevermind," she mumbled, averting her gaze.

Charon was too occupied to step in and correct her. "It wouldn't be Kirsch," he said. "I know it wouldn't."

"For all of our sakes, I hope you're right," Autor said. "But if it isn't him, and the police never come here, then it must be someone else."

Mr. Mueller was staring at all of them. "This is sounding worse all the time," he moaned, feeling more and more ill. "Oh, if only I'd done something!"

"You gave Fakir something to eat," Ahiru said, her voice cracking as she looked to him. "And he really needed it. Those awful men might not have fed him for a long time!" She gave a weak smile. "I'm glad you didn't get hurt and that you were able to tell us all these things."

Charon nodded. "That's very important," he said.

Ahiru looked up at him. "But if we can't call Detective Kirsch, and the police aren't coming, what do we now?" Her eyes were desperate and pleading. They could not just question people and then not do anything, if they were the only ones even trying to find Fakir. In spite of the danger they _had_ to take it upon themselves to get Fakir back. They had to keep going and not stop until Fakir was safe and sound.

Charon could only meet her gaze for a moment before he had to turn away. This was a horrible spot to be put in. Did he have no choice but to endanger Ahiru and Autor in order to save Fakir? If he tried to leave them somewhere and set out on his own, they would only think of some way to follow. It might be safer for them in the long run if they all stayed together. But . . . could he agree to that?

Could he _not_ agree?

". . . Maybe I could call and ask if there's been any news," he said at last. "I wouldn't have to act like anything is wrong."

Mr. Mueller nodded. "I do have a phone," he said. "It's in the kitchen. Here, I'll show you." He got up, leading the group to a mounted wall telephone just to the side of the doorway in the kitchen.

"Thank you," Charon said. He stepped to the phone and took the receiver.

The others waited, just as tense as he while he dialed and the phone rang. When Kirsch answered, Charon greeted him and asked about the news. The worry in his voice was not exaggerated in the least. As the conversation continued, his eyes narrowed. When they hung up, the poor man looked overwhelmed.

"He claims he passed the word along to the state police, just as he promised," he said, turning to face the little audience. "I asked if he knew whether anyone had been dispatched to interview people along the road yet. He said he thought so."

Ahiru frowned. "So . . . what does that mean?"

"It means we still don't know anything." Charon looked weary. "He could be lying, but he could be telling the truth."

Autor looked to Mr. Mueller. "Do you think anyone else along the road would have seen them?" he asked.

Mr. Mueller gave a helpless shrug. "I don't know," he said. "They weren't planning to make any other stops that I know of. But you could ask around in case."

Charon nodded. "We'll do that," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality." He headed in determination back to the living room and to the front door. The others trailed after him.

"You just find that poor boy," Mr. Mueller said as Charon opened the door. "And let me know if there's anything else I can do."

"We'll call you when we get a chance," Autor said. "Tell us if the police actually come."

"I certainly will," Mr. Mueller affirmed. "Here, I'll give you my phone number." He reached for a notepad on an end table by the door. After quickly scrawling the number he handed the paper to Charon, who pocketed it with a nod.

As he and the teens stepped outside, a surreal sound ricocheted off the nearby buildings and a small object nicked a tree trunk next to Charon.

Ahiru gasped. "What was that?" she cried.

But at the same moment she was exclaiming, Autor was grabbing her and diving back into the house. Charon lunged after them, trying to shield them as the sound came again. Mr. Mueller stared in stunned disbelief and confusion as a second bullet traveled inside the house, narrowly missing them.

"Someone is shooting at us!" Autor yelled.

Charon slammed the door shut, tense as a third bullet drove into the heavy wood behind him. Ahiru's eyes were wide in horror. She stared at the closed door, trembling without even realizing it. Autor held her close to him, his heart racing.

The shots did not come again, but they were still echoing through everyone's minds.


	9. The Arrival

**Chapter Nine**

It seemed a long moment before the succeeding silence grew loud enough for everyone to snap to and seek to fill it.

"What is going on with my own property?" Mr. Mueller burst out. "They're trying to turn it into a killing ground!" Over the initial shock, he stormed into the bedroom and returned with a rifle, which he opened to load. His hands shook as he inserted the bullets and snapped the weapon closed.

Charon came to immediate attention. "What are you doing?" he exclaimed, his voice harsh in his concern.

"I'm going to catch that sniper, that's what I'm doing," Mr. Mueller retorted, his eyes flashing with fury. "This is the last straw!"

Autor released Ahiru and hurried to join Charon. "He could still be there, waiting for one of us to open the door again!" he pointed out. "Going out there would be suicide!"

"I refuse to hide in here and let a hitman take over my yard!" Mr. Mueller declared. "We can't call the police about this, can we? If you're worried someone's on the other side of the law, you can't make it known you're here right now. Then they'll know you suspect something."

"If someone's on the other side of the law, they probably already know," Autor said. "Either your farm is being watched . . . or someone followed us here."

"All the way from home?" Ahiru said in horror.

Autor gave a grim nod. "Yes."

Mr. Mueller continued to clutch the rifle, his expression showing his conflicted feelings. But at last his curled hands loosened—slightly.

"What are you going to do?" he worried. "That guy could just park himself out there indefinitely and not let you get away!"

Autor frowned, deep in thought. "I don't suppose we could trick him into thinking that second bullet hit one of us," he said, glancing at the lead, which was harmless on the wooden floor.

Ahiru stared at him, her mouth dropping open. "Why would we want to do that?" she exclaimed in horror.

Autor pushed up his wandering glasses. "Because on the one hand," he said with some impatience, "if his job was to kill at least one of us in the hopes of it causing us to rethink our plans, he would feel he had succeeded and might go away. And if he was only supposed to scare us—which I doubt—the belief that he has killed one of us could frighten him into leaving. It's not without risks," he added quickly, "but at this point, when we don't know where he's even hiding, I'm not sure there's another plan that's a possibility enough for us to try."

Ahiru looked at the floor. "I guess," she mumbled. "But we all got away. I don't like to pretend that we didn't. It's too horrible, because one of us really could have been killed!"

Charon nodded in agreement. "I agree," he said. "However, Autor has a point. We need to find a way to get the sniper to leave."

"Yeah." Ahiru raised her gaze. "Mr. Mueller won't be safe if that awful guy stays around!"

"If he thinks Mr. Mueller has been telling us what happened, he might come back even if we can get him to leave," Autor cautioned. He turned to their host. "You're very likely not safe here until this gang is caught."

"I'm not worried," Mr. Mueller retorted. "I'd welcome a chance to fight off that rotten killer." He gripped his gun tighter again.

"That wouldn't be wise," Charon cried, the tension obvious in his straining voice.

"Well, I don't think I'd be any safer traveling with all of you," Mr. Mueller said. "And I've worked hard on this land. Who knows what might happen to it if I go off and leave!"

"So you won't come?" Ahiru said in disappointment.

"I don't think so, young lady," Mr. Mueller said. "You've got your job to do and I've got mine."

Autor had fallen silent, thinking further on their escape attempt plan. "The victim would have to be either you or I," he said. "I was holding onto Ahiru and the bullet would not have hit her in a fatal place unless it traveled into her from me." Ahiru cringed at the graphic image. "And Charon was still outside, so the assassin would have seen that Charon had not been struck."

"I don't want to play possum, I tell you!" Mr. Mueller snapped, shaking the side of his rifle at Autor. "I have to stay fit to take care of that murderer if he comes back. Besides, where would I go if I picked up and traveled with all of you?"

"I guess wherever we go," Ahiru mumbled. "Unless we found a place where you could get off and be okay."

"We don't know if there is such a place," Autor reminded her. "While we might be able to trick the sniper this one time, I doubt it would work another time. And I have a feeling someone will be pursuing us even after we leave here. Our deception would be discovered before long. For now we just need it to work long enough to get away from here."

"But you were already hurt!" Ahiru exclaimed. "Would the shooter guy even believe at all that you got shot, if you figure you have to be the one?" She shuddered. "Maybe he'd think it was too suspicious or something."

"That's true also," Autor said. "Still, he might believe it on the grounds that, since I _am_ already hurt, I might not be able to move fast enough to avoid the bullet. And we don't know how much, if anything, he even knows about what happened at the mansion. He could be a hired hitman and only know who his targets are without knowing a great deal about them."

"I guess," Ahiru said. She averted her gaze. "But I . . . I still don't like it, Autor. I mean, we'd have to pretend that you were shot and be upset and really sad. And that . . . it just hurts too much!" She whirled back to face him. "I didn't even know if you were alive after the fall! I've been so happy that you're okay. And then to have to act like you're dead now. . . . I . . . I just don't know if I can stand to do it!"

Autor regarded her in some surprise before his eyes softened in compassion and guilt. "I'm sorry, Ahiru," he said. "I shouldn't ask it of you. Considering that the sniper may very well still be outside, it's the only plan I can think of that might possibly allow us to get out of here. If we can't escape, one of us being shot might not be just an act. You understand that, don't you?"

Ahiru glared at him and then at the floor, as though challenging them both. But then her shoulders slumped and she looked at him with woebegone eyes.

"Yeah," she whispered.

Charon looked to Mr. Mueller, about to speak when something outside the window caught his eye. "Wait!" he exclaimed. "There's movement in that tree!"

"What?" Mr. Mueller cried. He hurried to the window, followed by the teens and Charon himself. The branches of a large evergreen tree were violently shaking and swaying. As the group watched in astonishment a figure leaped to the ground from the bottom branches and began to walk towards the car. A deadly sniper rifle was clutched in the person's hands.

This time Mr. Mueller made it to the front door and took hold of the handle. "He's going to damage your car so you can't leave!" he burst out. "Or maybe even run off with it himself!"

Charon reached to grab him and pull him back. "We should wait and see what he does!" he scolded. "You could be shot dead before you even have a chance to prepare yourself!"

But the sound of the door handle starting to turn caused the assassin to look up with a start. Not taking time to study the abode at all, he spun about and ran towards the tree. Rather than climbing back up, he tore into the field beyond.

Mr. Mueller hauled the door open. "He's on the run now!" he cried. "We have to catch him. There's no telling what he might do!" Still gripping his gun, he all but flew over the yard in very good condition for his age.

Charon moved to hurry after them. "Both of you, stay inside and keep the door locked," he instructed Autor and Ahiru. "This is too dangerous. I don't want you involved."

Autor narrowed his eyes but nodded. "We'll stay here," he said.

Ahiru stepped forward, her eyes filled with worry. "Be careful!" she cried.

Charon gave her a slight smile. "I will," he said. As he pulled the door shut after him, he gave chase. Mr. Mueller was already entering the field.

Ahiru stared out the window as the three men vanished from sight. "This is awful!" she wailed. "What if they get hurt? We won't even know it to be able to help them!"

"We'll have to trust it won't happen," Autor said. He sighed. "Right now, I wouldn't be able to keep up with them anyway. I would only be a burden."

Ahiru bit her lip. "I can run really fast," she mumbled, "but I can't leave you here, Autor. Maybe some other gang people would come!" She clenched a fist. "And Charon told us to stay here. I don't want to disobey him, either."

"They should be alright," Autor told her. But from the slight inflection in his tone, she gleaned that he was at least somewhat frustrated that they had been forbidden from joining the pursuit. Autor strongly disliked feeling helpless, as did she, but he was trying to simply accept it.

Ahiru finally sank into a chair. "I hope so," she whispered.

xxxx

Charon was still in pursuit of the duo when a gunshot rang through the air. He froze, looking ahead to the darkening fields. Had one or the other of the two men been hit? What if it was Mr. Mueller? He would never forgive himself for not being able to have kept the farmer from being harmed.

He started to run again, his heart gathering speed. It sounded like they were both still traveling over the grass. Then, suddenly, he was overtaking their host—who was both unharmed and angry. Up ahead, the sniper was fleeing, but in tackling distance.

"Get him!" Mr. Mueller yelled. He gripped his rifle, which he was still holding diagonally in front of his chest.

Charon did not wait to ask questions. He lunged at the same time as the older man and they attacked the assassin from two directions. The three of them went down in a struggling, flailing pile.

The sniper cursed. Still stubbornly holding onto his rifle, he jabbed Charon in the ribs with his elbow. Charon gritted his teeth but held on tighter. Mr. Mueller scrambled over the grassy field, grabbing the killer's gun and giving a vicious pull.

"What are you doing on my property?" he demanded.

"What do you know about my son's whereabouts?" Charon snarled.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the gunman shot back, the anger obvious in his voice.

"You do too," Mr. Mueller said, "and we're getting the answers from you." Again he pulled on the weapon, this time beginning to pry it away. The sniper reacted instantaneously, swinging it around to strike Mr. Mueller hard on his calves. The farmer fell back, gasping in pain.

Charon gripped tighter on their prisoner. "Don't try that again," he said, the warning and fury both strong in his voice. "Were you paid to come here and kill us?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," was the defiant retort.

"We'll find out anyway," Mr. Mueller said, recovering from the blow. He leaned forward, slipping his hand into the criminal's pocket. As he drew it out, clutching a leather wallet, the sniper twisted around to look at him.

"Put that down!" he ordered.

Mr. Mueller ignored him and flipped the wallet open, scanning through the various cards and information.

"Johan Schmidt," he read from a driver's license. "Pretty common."

"It's my real name!" the assassin insisted. "There's no law against having a common name." His eyes narrowed as he looked to Charon, who was still pinning him to the ground.

"There's a law against sniping at people," Charon said darkly.

"Call the police about it," Johan Schmidt retorted.

Charon frowned. Was it just an idle remark meant to frustrate, or did he want Charon to call the police? If there was a spy on the force, did he know about it and know that he would be able to get away if the police were informed?

"We'll do that," Charon said then. "What else does it say on that license?"

Mr. Mueller squinted at it. "It was supposedly given to him in Hamburg," he said.

"Hamburg?" Charon exclaimed.

"Is that important?" Mr. Mueller said in surprise.

Charon sighed. "I don't know," he said. "It probably doesn't mean anything. But then again. . . ." He glared at their captive. "Were you hired by someone in Hamburg?"

The sniper looked at him for a long moment. Then a cruel sneer began to slide over his features. "Hamburg's a big city," he said. "Even if you decided to go there, you wouldn't have any luck—especially since I doubt you know your way around a city to begin with."

Charon's patience was gone. With frightening strength he stood, hauling the assassin up with him in one swift motion.

"I want my son!" he roared. "If you know where he is, then tell me!"

For a moment a flicker of fear went through the criminal's eyes. He dropped the rifle, which was useless to him in his current position, and started to reach up to grab at Charon's thick wrists.

In an instant Mr. Mueller was snatching the sniper's wrists, wrenching them behind his back as he yelled and cursed. "Don't say anything unless you're going to tell us what we want to know!" the farmer demanded over the vile language.

The assassin immediately fell silent. Charon glared at him, his knuckles going white as he held on to the criminal. "Is that your decision?" he asked. He received a cold glare in response. "Then we are going to call the police." Spy or no spy, they would have to chance it. They could not keep the criminal here. And perhaps some time in jail would loosen his tongue.

xxxx

The sound of the gunshot sent Ahiru into a horrified, rambling panic. She leaped up from the table where she and Autor were sitting, nearly knocking the chair backwards to the floor.

"Listen to that!" she cried. "It's a gun, Autor! What if Charon and Mr. Mueller are hurt?" She ran to the door, half-tripping over the chair along the way. She flailed, grabbing for the door handle. "We can't stay here any longer! We have to go to them!"

Alarmed, Autor ran to her, reaching to pull her back. "Ahiru, no!" he exclaimed. "It's too dangerous!"

"I don't care!" Ahiru wailed, jerking away from him. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to come back when they might never come back!"

Autor gritted his teeth. "We have a responsibility to follow Charon's instructions," he said. "If the sniper has shot him or Mr. Mueller, we might be next. On the other hand, the shooter may simply run for his life." He stepped around to be between Ahiru and the door. "If we don't hear anything more, and they don't come back in the next few minutes, I'll call the police."

"What if a few minutes is too late?" Ahiru retorted. "And then we'd have to wait for the police to come, too! There aren't any close by!"

"What match would we be for someone like that?" Autor said, an edge slipping into his voice. "Ahiru, it's folly to go out there right now. We could both easily be killed, and that would not help Charon or Mr. Mueller."

Ahiru glared at him for what seemed a long moment. Then her shoulders slumped and she gazed at the floor. "I guess you're right," she mumbled. "But I don't like this!" She looked back at him with a start. "I'm so tired of feeling helpless! I want to _do_ something, Autor!"

"Even I can't count the number of times I've thought the same thing to myself over the past couple of days." Autor fixed her with a steady look. "You aren't the only one worried here, Ahiru."

Ahiru flinched. "I didn't mean to come off like that," she said after a moment.

Autor sighed. "I realize that." He moved to steer her back to the table. "Come on, let's wait a few minutes more."

Ahiru gave a weak, relenting nod. She shuffled across the room, plopping back in the chair. Autor sat next to her.

It was difficult to stick to his resolve. Ahiru was right that the police were not close by. After he called them, then what? Could they afford to keep waiting? If one of the men had been wounded, he would need immediate medical attention. Maybe one person alone would not be able to help all that would be needed.

And if they were both injured. . . .

He narrowed his eyes. Ahiru would never stand for him going to investigate on his own; he knew that much. And they would probably have a better chance together anyway—even if they did encounter the killer.

But what about how they had made everything worse when they had tried to help Fakir? He could not easily forget about that. Ahiru might very well be right, about their failure affecting him even more deeply than it did Ahiru. Could he really lead them into what might be another blunder?

Would it be a worse blunder to stay behind this time? How was he to know?

The front door flew open, startling both of them out of their thoughts. Autor rose as Ahiru jumped up and hurried to the doorway, her braid flying out behind her as she ran. He did not even have a chance to warn her that it might be the sniper.

"Charon?" she called. "Mr. Mueller?"

Charon stepped into view, tired and worn but angry. "We caught him," he announced. "Are you and Autor alright?"

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "We're fine, just really worried!" she declared.

Autor came up behind her. "Was anyone hurt?" he asked. "We heard a gunshot."

"It fired into the air." Charon walked past them into the kitchen and grabbed the telephone receiver. "We have to get the police here immediately."

Ahiru watched him dial a number on the rotary. "Where's Mr. Mueller?" she wanted to know.

"He's putting the sniper in his cellar," Charon said. "We decided that would be the safest place for the time being. He's tied, but we don't want to take any chances on him getting loose. Mr. Mueller is going to stand guard outside."

Autor and Ahiru fell silent while Charon conversed with a police officer, briefly explaining their problem and giving their location. When he hung up, Autor promptly spoke.

"Are they planning to send someone?"

Charon sighed. "Yes," he said. "The problem is whether it will be a legitimate officer or someone working with the sniper. We won't have any way to know."

"Maybe there really isn't a spy there," Ahiru said hopefully.

"Maybe there isn't," Charon said. "We don't know."

"Did you learn anything valuable?" Autor asked.

"Only that his name might be Johan Schmidt and that he was supposedly issued a driver's license in Hamburg." Charon shook his head. "All of that could be false."

"Or there could be some level of truth to it, at least," Autor said. "What if Hamburg is where the gang is headquartered?"

"We thought of that," Charon said with a frown. "He didn't actually say yes or no."

"Then maybe we should think about going there," Autor said.

Charon crossed the room and sank into a chair. "He said that Hamburg is a large city and we wouldn't be likely to find what we're looking for," he said. "Unfortunately, that's true." His eyes narrowed. "But if there's any chance that Fakir is there, I'm going to take it."

"And we'll be with you!" Ahiru exclaimed. "Won't we?"

Charon gave a weary nod. "We're in this together," he said. "But I still insist on trying to keep you both out of danger."

"That might not be possible," Autor said.

"Where is Hamburg anyway?" Ahiru broke in.

Autor looked to her and sighed. "If you paid more attention in Geography class, you would already know the answer," he said.

"I can't keep everything straight!" Ahiru said. "It's just a bunch of squiggly lines and green stuff!"

In spite of the terrible day and the continuing worry, Charon cracked a smile at Ahiru's description of a map. Autor did not look amused.

"We are approximately one hundred kilometers out of Kinkan," he said. "We left via the North gate and turned to the West. From there we turned Northeast.

"Hamburg should be North of here. In order to give you the exact distance, I would need a map."

Ahiru turned to stare out the window. "If Fakir's going there, he'll be so far away," she said quietly.

"He's likely already far from here," Autor pointed out.

"Yeah, I know." Ahiru sounded so sad and distant. Autor watched her dejectedly, resting his right arm on the table.

"Will we be going to Hamburg then?" he asked.

Charon sighed. "If we don't learn anything else, either from the sniper, the police, or others living on this road, then yes," he said. "It's shaky, but it's the only lead we have."

Ahiru turned back to face him and Autor. "Maybe it's a good one!" she said. She tried to smile. "Maybe we'll find Fakir when we go and everything will be okay!"

"We can hope, in any case," Charon said.

"And we can hope the police get here soon," Autor frowned, glancing out the window to where Mr. Mueller was standing with his rifle at the cellar door.

Ahiru gave a firm nod of agreement.

xxxx

"There it is."

Fakir peered out the window at his guard's announcement. Far below, the lights of the city glittered and stood out against the dark night. He had never seen anything like it, nor ever ridden on an aircraft, but under the circumstances he could not enjoy either experience.

By contrast, Autor probably would have found some level of fascination in it, in spite of his distress over the situation. He always seemed to be able to appreciate new and different things, no matter what was going on around him. That was something he and Ahiru had in common.

An arrow stabbed Fakir's heart. Autor _had_ always seemed to, and he and Ahiru _had_ had it in common. He was gone now.

He lived on somewhere, though. Fakir had to at least tell himself that. Surely Autor had gone back to Heaven and was with his parents. Maybe he would even see Fakir's parents again.

Fakir swore helplessly in his mind. He did not _want_ to think about any of that. He wanted to think that Autor was still alive, and not paralyzed, and that he would recover from the fall. But he would be telling himself a lie. He could not let himself be caught in such a deception. It would only be all the worse when reality came crashing back on him once more.

That sounded like something Autor might have said.

Why did everything have to go back to Autor?

"We're landing on that rooftop over there." The sentry tapped the glass lightly with the barrel of his revolver. "Then we're getting out and casually going down the elevator and outside."

Fakir frowned as he studied the skyscraper. "What is that place?" he asked.

"It's some bigshot company owned by a guy named von Schroeder," the thug told him. "Heimbrecht works at it. He was on a business trip and is just coming back tonight. At least, that's what everyone in there thinks."

"Won't it look suspicious for all of us to go through there?" Fakir said, turning to look back at him.

"No, for two reasons." The wretch sneered at him. "First, no one's going to see anything out of the ordinary—just some businessmen leaving for the day. Heimbrecht is going in ahead of us and will get out by himself. And to make sure no one thinks anything about us when it's our turn, you're going to write about it. Consider this your first assignment."

Fakir stiffened. "I should've known," he growled. He had been about to mention that the news of his abduction had likely gone out to all the branches of the media, but there was no point now. He himself would unwillingly ensure that no one would see or recognize him as the missing guy from Kinkan Town.

He fell silent as the aircraft—which was apparently some kind of large helicopter—drew directly over the building and began its descent. When it landed, this phase of his life was going to officially begin. He did not want that. He wanted to get away from this horror, to go back to Ahiru and Charon and not have to think any more about helping these murderers commit crimes.

Why had his father been so rebellious? Why had he thought being in a gang would be fun? If it had not been for that, Fakir would not be in this mess now and Autor would not be dead.

He shut his eyes tight. He could not waste time blaming his father's past idiocy for this. Anyway, the man was probably watching all of this from the afterlife, sickened at what his son and the others were going through and blaming himself enough for both of them.

He opened his eyes as the helicopter touched down on the roof. The loud noise of the propellers slowed and stopped, and the gang member whom he had originally thought was the leader stepped up and pulled open the door.

"Wait five minutes after I go in before following," he instructed. "Gretel will be watching from the security room to make certain none of you ruin this." He looked to Fakir. "In case of an emergency, she will loop the security camera tapes so you people won't appear on them. But if it's necessary for her to do that, it will also be necessary for someone else you love to be killed. Think about that, punk."

Fakir narrowed his eyes, regarding his enemy in contempt. Heimbrecht turned away, jumping through the open doorway and to the roof. Soon he was vanishing inside the building.

Another gang member pulled back his sleeve to study his watch. "Five minutes," he reminded. "Starting now."

The guard reached for a satchel that had been next to Fakir's seat on the flight. "Here's your paper and pen," he said, drawing them out of the bag. "You know what to do with them."

Fakir accepted them, his expression still ice-cold. He clutched the paper holder with one hand, resting it on his arm, while taking up the quill with his other hand. He felt out of place, standing here with his simple writing tools in a modern aircraft. But more than that, he felt out of place standing here with his simple writing tools surrounded by killers.

He only prayed that there would never come the time when he felt at home in this situation.

The minutes stretched endlessly, but the criminals seemed used to waiting. As Fakir grew more restless, they seemed unaffected. When at last the watch-checker stood, all others looked to him with determined starts to attention.

"It's time," he said.

It was all that needed to be said. One by one they jumped out of the helicopter, following him onto the roof and through the door into the top stairwell. Their leader went to the door opening onto the highest level, easing it aside just a crack to see into the corridor beyond.

"The company president's not here," he reported. "He must have already gone home. That's all the better for us."

The sentry prodded Fakir with the gun. "And that's your cue," he said. "Someone might still be around up here. Start writing."

Fakir clenched his teeth. He dipped the pen into the attached inkwell, a silent, desperate prayer running through his mind.

_I know I'm asking to succeed in committing a crime, but I'm trying to keep Ahiru and Charon safe. Does that count for anything?_

_Please . . . I can't fail. Not now. This has to work. We have to get out without anyone getting suspicious._

He brought the pen to the paper and began to write. Even as he began, he could feel the power flowing from his arm and hand and into the words forming from the quill. What he was putting down was going to come true.

He stayed focused on the Story as he and the gang departed the stairwell and traversed first the floor, then the elevator. They would get away without causing a commotion. No one would notice them, and they would probably not be remembered by anyone who did.

He was part of a crime. The gang planned to pull off a robbery in the next day or two.

But he was trying to protect Ahiru and Charon. That was what he had to think about. Whatever he was forced to do, he had to consider their safety. If he stuck it out a while, figuring out more about the gang and their habits, maybe then he would be able to outsmart them and get away.

The gun tapped him on his shoulder. He started back to the present. They were standing outside in the cool night air, the lights of the building off to the right. There were no sirens, no confused and yelling people. No retribution.

"Good work," the guard sneered. "It looks like you came through."

Fakir glowered. _Just for now,_ he vowed. _Just for now._

But the sinking feeling in his stomach did not go away.

_Now, I'm a criminal._


	10. In the City

**Notes: Kudos to anyone who knows what series the guest-starring brothers are from.**

**Chapter Ten**

Ahiru stared out the window in discouragement as Charon began to pull out from the lonely and dark house on the road. Her eyelids were drooping, a physical display of her utter exhaustion. "Well," she mumbled, "that's the last one."

Autor sighed. "They seem to remember the car, as many others have," he mused. "And that one person acknowledged seeing Fakir in it. Unfortunately, none of that is information that's very useful. We know the car had to go down this road once it was on it, unless it turned back. And that would be highly unlikely."

"At least the police seemed nice," Ahiru said, "when they came to Mr. Mueller's house to get that creepy guy. And they knew who he was, too!"

"He still refuses to talk," Autor said in annoyance. "Either he's confident because of having an ally on the police force or because he's sure that he'll be able to get out some other way. Or he's just inane. He couldn't even be swayed by the offer of reduced charges for his cooperation."

"He may change his mind after spending a couple of days in jail," Charon said, "but we can't wait for that."

Ahiru leaned forward. "So we're going to Hamburg?" she exclaimed.

"Yes." Charon's eyes were narrowed as he glanced in the rear-view mirror. "The police in Hamburg have been alerted, but a killer associated with the gang being from there is still just shaky evidence."

"They may have several bases of operation," Autor said.

"That wouldn't surprise me," Charon said.

Ahiru slumped back in her seat, staring at the ceiling. "Hamburg's all the way up at the Northern part of the country, almost to the border!" she moaned. Autor had found a map while they had been waiting for the police and showed her. She clenched a fist. "But we're going to find Fakir there!"

". . . The police did say the license could have been a plant," Autor spoke after a moment.

Ahiru frowned. "Oh yeah," she said, her determination deflating as a balloon. "And I asked what plants had to do with it and said it didn't look like a plant."

"Really, Ahiru." Autor sighed, shaking his head.

Ahiru pouted. "Moles, plants. . . . I don't get all this weird police talk!"

Charon gripped the steering wheel. "If someone else could just be found who saw them," he berated. "They might have turned in a completely opposite direction from Hamburg."

"But without that vital information, we only have Hamburg to go on." Autor pushed up his glasses. "The police will know soon enough if the license was actually issued, but even that won't tell us if the man has lived in Hamburg. He could have falsified documents. Or he might have even lived in Hamburg when the license was issued, but have moved by now."

Ahiru nodded. "The officer said the guy's worked in all the big cities," she said. "Frankfurt and Munich, too."

"Munich," Autor repeated. He leaned forward, gripping the back of the seat in front of him. "Munich is much closer than Hamburg," he said, growing excited.

Ahiru tilted her head. "But wouldn't they want to get further away from here?" she said, puzzled.

"Yes, unless they want to do the opposite and get _us _further away," Autor said. "If the license was a deliberate plant for us to find in case of the sniper being caught, why would they want to lead us close to them? If they used a false location, they might be able to convince us to go up there, while they would remain down here and use the nearest large city for their planned robberies."

Charon's knuckles were white. "I could believe this Anton would be that smart," he said.

Autor nodded. "And even if the license was not a plant, they might count on us having the idea that they would want to get further away," he said. "I'm not saying any of this is the case, but it's a possibility."

"So what do we do?" Ahiru exclaimed. "Go to Hamburg or Munich or somewhere else? And what about telling the police?"

For a long moment Charon was silent. "We still don't know if there are moles in the police departments," he said. "In any case, Hamburg should be getting investigated by the legitimate officers. But we don't know if anyone has thought of checking Frankfurt, Munich, and the other large cities, or if they have, whether they'd check as thoroughly as in Hamburg."

"We could easily get to Munich in two hours or so, depending on where this road connects with the federal highway," Autor said. "Why not slip away and see what we can find there?"

Ahiru blinked at him. "Without telling the police?" she said in surprise.

"Not for a short while anyway," Autor said. "Just in case there is something amiss."

Charon's frown deepened. "You're both involved in this far more than you should be," he said.

"But . . . Fakir!" Ahiru protested. "Of course we're both involved, because we want to get Fakir back!" Tears pricked her eyes. "We're just as worried as you, Charon!"

"I'm not trying to say you aren't." Charon sounded both weary and resigned. "But I'm responsible for your safety." Now his voice tightened. "Do you think I could live with myself if I lost one or both of you to Anton Schuster's gang?"

Ahiru stiffened. "No," she said quietly, lowering her head.

Autor regarded the man in surprise. Even though he knew Charon considered him part of the family, the intensity in Charon's voice was not something he had expected to hear. No adult had spoken like that in reference to him since his parents' deaths. Perhaps Charon was mainly thinking of Ahiru, since she was his legal charge and he thought of her as a daughter. A while ago Autor would have been convinced of that idea, but now he was unsure. Charon sounded as though he would feel just as terrible if something happened to Autor.

He cleared his throat. Not quite certain how to address his feelings, for now he would set them aside. "Then what are we going to do?" he queried.

Charon sighed, glaring at the dark road ahead of them. "Go to Munich," he said finally. "From there I can't begin to imagine."

Ahiru looked up with a happy start. "We'll figure it out when we get there!" she declared. "Maybe we'll find a clue!"

"Or maybe we won't find anything at all," Autor said. "Ahiru, please don't get your hopes set too high."

"I won't," Ahiru assured him. She clasped her hands around her knees, her eyes sparkling. In spite of Autor's warning and her reassurance, it would be impossible to not hope that they would find Fakir. They would. They had to! If not in Munich, then somewhere else.

Anton's gang could not have him.

Fakir was coming home with them and that was that.

xxxx

Fakir stared with blank, bleary eyes at the steaming mug in front of him on the table. It had been an endless, nearly sleepless night after they had gone to their place of lodging from the von Schroeder building. Now, with morning upon them, he and his guard were at a café somewhere near the planned site of the first robbery. After they ate, he was going to be briefed on the details. Anton wanted the job done that night.

Fakir was hungry; he had barely eaten the past night. But instead he kept gazing at the tumbler, idly watching the plumes rising from the hot liquid.

Technically he had not done anything illegal last night. The gang had just not wanted to be seen going out of the building and he had written that no one would think them out of place or unusual or even remember anything specific about them.

But tonight he would be helping them commit robbery. Someone could even get killed. If he did not write the Story, that someone would be Ahiru or Charon.

He grabbed the mug, taking a slow sip. There was not anything he could do, was there? He had gone over it countless times. The gang was keeping a close watch on every move he made. He had not even been able to go wash up before bed without his shadow insisting on staying right outside the door, which was to be left open a crack and never shut tight or locked. And they did not trust him enough to let him write without one of them reading every word as it went onto the paper. If he tried to betray them, Anton had made it clear that the order would go out for his loved ones to be killed. After seeing the photographic proof that someone was spying on Ahiru and Charon, Fakir could not take a chance.

If he could stick with this long enough to gain their trust, then he might be able to write without them constantly looking over his shoulder. Then he could find a way to break free, get them arrested, and go back to his family.

The main question was whether he would be able to do everything it might take to gain their trust. Over and over it kept going back to his fear that he would have to kill someone. And he did not know that he could do that, even if it would mean Ahiru's and Charon's lives would be forfeit if he did not. Could he live with himself if he sent an innocent bystander to his or her death?

Could he live with himself if he in essence killed Ahiru and Charon? He had already killed Autor.

He swore, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. He did not want to think about the argument and Autor's fall from the balcony. Not again. But there was no escape from it; the memories held him far more captive than any physical vise. When his mind replayed Autor's shocked and disbelieving expression and Ahiru's screams of horror, he felt like he was going to scream too.

_No. No, no, no. Autor can't be dead. Don't you understand? He __**can't**__ be! Please, God, he can't be._

But it was no use. What kind of idiot was he, praying for something to be unmade that had already been made? There was no turning back from this. Autor was dead and he was just going to have to deal with it somehow. He had seen the body. And Anton had told him there were even photographs of it. The sniper had sent them along with the others.

"Excuse me?"

He looked up with a start. A boy around Ahiru's age was standing next to his table, concern in his wide hazel eyes. He was dressed smartly—likely some rich kid—and had his magenta-colored hair pulled back in a bushy ponytail. He also had freckles—like Ahiru, Fakir noted.

Fakir straightened. "Yeah, what is it?" he said. He took up the mug and sipped from it again in an effort to look more natural. His guard was sitting in the same booth. If Fakir did anything stupid he could put anyone and everyone in danger, including this kid.

"I'm sorry," the younger boy said. "I know it's none of my business, but you looked upset and I just wondered if . . ." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "If you're alright," he finished.

Fakir regarded him in surprise. "I'm fine," he said, setting the mug on the table.

The kid gave a nervous smile. "Oh good," he said. "I'm sorry for intruding."

Fakir grunted. "It's not intruding to care about someone's safety," he said.

The magenta-haired boy looked surprised now. "I guess not," he said. "Well, I'll go now and let you get back to your drink." He smiled, more cheerful now. "My brother is waiting." With a small wave he hurried back across the aisle and into another booth.

Fakir could not help raising an eyebrow when he saw the guy already seated there. His hair was light pink and long, trailing down his back. Fakir was not sure if the man's purple suit complemented or clashed with the weird hair color. He was studying a menu, but glanced up when the boy climbed into the booth. From an ensuing snatch of conversation, it sounded like the kid's name was Leonhard.

The guard leaned over without looking conspicuous. "The guy with the long hair is Siegfried von Schroeder," he said. Fakir froze in shock. The thug's expression twisted in a darkly amused sneer. "Yeah, that's right, the guy whose building we waltzed through last night. The kid's his younger brother."

"The kid already said his brother was waiting," Fakir said, his voice nearly forming icicles. "And I'm sure you heard that. I don't need you to state the obvious."

He snuck another glance at the duo. Completely aside from the weirdness of a business executive looking like _that,_ it was a strange coincidence that he had run into the von Schroeders here. So much so that he had to wonder if it was really a coincidence. The sentry did not seem surprised at all to see them here.

But what reason would the gang have for wanting Fakir to see them?

"Is this their favorite place to get breakfast?" Fakir asked, keeping his voice low.

"It could be," the guard said with a shrug. "I don't know. They probably usually eat at their castle."

Fakir's eyes shot open wide. Their _castle?_

He shook his head. Now he was getting distracted by stupid things that did not matter. And he was probably blowing this all out of proportion, overly paranoid because of what had been happening during this nightmare. There was no reason why this meeting would deliberately take place.

The guard straightened in his seat. "Aren't you almost done?" he said in annoyance. "You've been nursing that mug for half an hour."

"Yeah, yeah." Fakir took another drink. By now it was cool enough that he did not have to worry about burning himself. He leaned back, regarding the man with suspicion. "I still don't know what you guys are planning to do tonight."

"What _we're_ planning to do," the thug corrected. "You're an integral part of this, punk."

Fakir's eyes narrowed further. "Somehow I can't picture you guys going after supermarkets or even banks," he said, only partially sarcastic.

"You're right," was the sneered reply. "That's how some of us started, but now that we've moved up in the world we focus on specific people who . . . owe us."

"And if they don't pay up, you kill them," Fakir said matter-of-factly.

"If they don't pay up with interest," the sentry said. "A lot of them forget the interest. Or they don't know how to calculate and they don't give us enough." He relaxed against the corner of the booth. "Sometimes we just go help ourselves to their stuff without trying to force them to cooperate."

"Which way is it tonight?" Fakir asked. He found himself hoping it was the latter. Maybe then there would be less likelihood of someone being killed.

A shrug. "We'll have to see."

Fakir turned to face him more fully. "Why can't I just write that you get your stuff and no one gets hurt?" he said.

"First, because we want the chance to try to make it work for ourselves. Anton doesn't want us to rely on your Story without even working with this on our own. Then we'd get weak.

"And second, you should know better than any of us that the Stories don't always do what you want them to." The guard looked entertained by Fakir's remark. "Sometimes they backfire."

"One of mine could do that," Fakir said.

"Your loved ones wouldn't get punished for an actual backfire," the guard said. "But if you write something deliberately to betray us and just say it backfired . . ."

"I know. You don't have to say it again," Fakir snapped.

The man stood, casually stretching. "Either finish that thing or leave it and come on," he said, suddenly annoyed. "I don't have all day. I never wanted to get stuck looking after you in the first place."

Fakir's lip curled. "And I never wanted to get stuck with you, so we're even." He downed the rest of the mug's contents and got up, walking out of the booth.

The guard stalked after him, staying close behind as they walked up the aisle. Fakir could not help but catch a snatch of conversation from the von Schroeder brothers' table.

"Siegfried, I think something's wrong with that guy. He seemed upset."

"It's none of our concern," Siegfried answered. "Perhaps he's having problems with his father."

"I don't think that man is his father," Leonhard said. "He didn't look . . ."

Fakir reached the door and pulled it open. The noise from the city block outside drowned the rest of Leonhard's sentence, but Fakir could guess at what it was. He stepped onto the sidewalk, not bothering to hold the door for his shadow. The guy caught hold of it as it started to swing shut, giving Fakir a dirty look while coming through the doorway.

"No one said I have to show you any common courtesy," Fakir said, his voice dark. "I don't feel very courteous right now."

"Have it your way," the criminal replied, letting the door close after him. "But just so you know, the von Schroeders were probably eating here today because Siegfried plans to check on his warehouses down the street."

"And why would I care about . . ." Fakir trailed off as the truth hit him. Apparently it showed on his face, as the sentry sneered.

"I see you finally got it," he said. "Yeah, it's him we're taking from tonight."

"So he's mixed up with you?" Fakir frowned. "I guess executives like him will do anything to stay ahead."

"Oh, he doesn't know he's mixed up with us," the guard said. "He's been in contact with one of Anton's more . . . legal fronts. But things didn't go the way they should have and Anton is tired of waiting for all the red tape to clear up. So we're going to make sure we profit from this deal, one way or another."

"Your boss is nuts," Fakir retorted. "A bigshot like this von Schroeder probably has all kinds of security."

"He does. But that shouldn't be any problem for you and your Stories," the man said.

Fakir swore under his breath.

The guy seemed anxious to get away from there and down to the warehouses before the brothers could finish their meal. He looked coldly at Fakir, silently telling him to go first. After giving him an equally frosty look, Fakir went.

He could feel the creep's eyes boring into his back as they journeyed up the sidewalk.

xxxx

It had taken a bit longer to reach Munich than they had thought. The old dirt road had gone on for quite a ways before it had connected with a paved road that in turn led to the federal highway. And from there they had gotten lost attempting to find the correct directions into the metropolis. By the time they were at last approaching, the sun was up.

Neither of the teens had been able to sleep. Now, Ahiru could not help but look out the window in awe as they drove into Munich's city limits. On the other side of the car, Autor was doing likewise.

"It's incredible," Autor breathed. "Munich is the third largest city in Germany. It's highly expensive to live here, however."

Ahiru pressed herself against the glass, staring at the tall buildings, modern traffic, and crowds of people. "It's so big," she exclaimed. "Maybe when we find Fakir we can all look around at stuff!"

"We don't know we're going to find him here," Charon interjected.

"I know, but we've just got to!" Ahiru cried. "He has to be here."

"It's ironic if they are here," Autor said, pushing up his glasses.

Ahiru turned to face him, blinking in surprise. "Why's that?" she wanted to know.

"Munich has a very low crime rate," Autor said. "If that gang is here, that statistic might become a thing of the past."

"Then we'll stop them before they commit any crimes!" Ahiru declared, clenching a fist in determination.

"That's certainly our intention, but it might not work that way," Autor said.

Charon nodded. "I still don't want either of you getting into a situation that we know is going to be dangerous," he said.

"I don't know how we're going to avoid it," Autor said.

Inwardly he was still worried. What if something terrible went wrong and they not only got into danger, but also were hurt? What if Fakir would get hurt? Or even Charon?

What if Autor would feel that he was to blame?

He had to stop such thoughts. Where was his confidence in himself? Had it completely fled because of his and Ahiru's disastrous attempt to save Fakir? He did not always subscribe to Ahiru's power of positive thinking, but this was simply realistic—he would not be able to do anything, at least not _well_ by any stretch of the imagination, if he did not have some level of confidence that they would succeed.

However, it was also realistic to think about the possibility that someone could get hurt. That had been his problem before, really; he had not stopped to consider that enough and had blindly felt that he and Ahiru would be able to save Fakir all by themselves. If he had been his usual self he would have been more cautious and aware of all the angles.

Perhaps the root problem was that he actually _had_ subscribed to Ahiru's power of positive thinking and had taken it too far.

Or maybe he had taken his caring of both her and Fakir too far and had let it cloud his reasoning abilities. Would they even be in this mess if not for his handling of the situation?

Fakir would likely still be missing, and the gang probably would have taken the same path. But at least he would not be carrying the burden of believing that Autor had been killed. Fakir's eyes were still haunting him.

Autor clenched a fist. He had made a terrible mistake, and somehow, someway, he had to rectify it. He had to do his part to bring Fakir home.

"We're all exhausted and hungry," Charon said. "We should find a place to stay and get something to eat. Not necessarily in that order."

"We should," Autor said. "After we've rested and ate, we should be more alert to cope with what we plan to do about our reason for being here."

"Yeah, I guess," Ahiru said. She sounded far away as she gazed at their new and fascinating surroundings. More than anything, she wished that this was a pleasure trip and that Fakir was here to enjoy it with them. She prayed that they would all be able to look around and have fun when this was over. Fakir needed something fun after what he had been going through. They all did.

"I wish we could look for Fakir right now," she said, finally turning back to look at Autor and Charon. "It feels like he's been gone for so long. And now that we're here, I don't know if I can eat or sleep or anything until we've at least tried to find him."

"We should never stop looking," Autor said. "While we're driving to find a restaurant or a hotel or whatever it is we're going to first, we should be watching in case Fakir passes us."

Charon nodded his agreement. "If the gang is here, they could be anywhere," he said.

"We should talk to people too," Ahiru said. "Maybe someone will have seen him!"

"It's doubtful anyone would remember," Autor frowned. "In such a large place, the people must have more on their minds than those back home do. However, you're right, Ahiru—we should ask anyway."

"People are nice here too, aren't they?" Ahiru said, frowning as well.

"Of course they are," Charon said, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.

She nodded as though confirming something to herself. "Then someone will have seen him and remember," she declared. "He can't look happy right now. Maybe someone will wonder if he's okay."

Charon allowed a slight smile at Ahiru's innocent assessment of the situation. He had to hope she was right.

Autor was more inclined to doubt it, although he would not fully dismiss it, either. But in his experiences, people were scarcely concerned with anything other than their own lives. If Fakir were around looking grim, Autor would not be surprised if no one bothered to notice.

"What's that?" Ahiru exclaimed, breaking into his thoughts.

Autor looked up with a jerk. Ahiru was pointing out the window to a large building with many stories and windows. An _H_ in an oval was at the top corner.

"It's a hotel," Autor said. "The Hilton. They're an international hotel chain."

"That's a hotel?" Ahiru gasped, whirling to look back at him.

Charon was amused. "It's different from the local inn, isn't it," he said.

"Is it!" Ahiru said. "It's huge! It's bigger than the biggest house in Kinkan!" She gestured wildly. "It's like Mytho's castle!"

"And some of the rooms are probably almost as large as his," Charon said. "Unfortunately, the Hilton is out of our price range."

"It isn't out of mine," Autor said.

Charon glanced back to him. "I couldn't have you pay for all the costs," he said. "I can imagine what they would charge for just one room. Two or three would be outrageous."

"There wouldn't be any harm in finding out, anyway," Autor said. "It's near the city center, so from here it should be easy to spread out and search downtown."

"I'm sure there's plenty of more reasonably-priced hotels near the city center," Charon said. But he maneuvered the car towards the Hilton anyway. Autor was right, he supposed; checking the charge would not hurt.

Even so, he found himself cringing and feeling slightly sick when they were told of the various prices. Autor himself did not look that pleased at the cost of just one night's stay—particularly when none of them knew how long they would be in the city. By mutual consent, the trio determined to look for something that would be more agreeable to all of them.

It took several recommendations and more calls than they had really wanted to make, but at last they were located in a modest but still pleasant hotel close to the downtown area. To keep the cost as low as possible, Charon and Autor were sharing a room while Ahiru was in the connecting room next to it. Autor found it awkward to board with someone else, but under the circumstances he was willing to make the compromise.

At the moment Ahiru was standing at the window in her room, gazing out at the panoramic view of the city. Her long hair, unbraided and damp after a quick shower, cascaded down her back and over her left shoulder as she absently brushed through it.

"Well," she spoke softly, "we're here, Fakir. Are you here too? I like to think that we're a little closer to finding you now. But are we?"

The only sound in response was the quiet whirr of the central air system as it blew the lightweight curtains about.

"I wish you were here," Ahiru continued. "I've never seen anything like this hotel or this city. And . . . I'd really like to share it all with you."

After a moment she gave a sad and weary sigh. Finished with her grooming, she crossed to the bed and hopped onto it, setting the brush on the nightstand. She would re-braid her hair later. Right now she felt ready for the rest Charon had talked about. She pulled the soft pillow close to her as she snuggled into it. Within five minutes she was sound asleep.


	11. Information

**Notes: Many thanks to Rhapsody14 for all of her help! Several things in this and following chapters (particularly 13) have come about because of her information.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Siegfried von Schroeder's warehouses were large and long and looked well kept, highly unlike the few rundown buildings at the lake outside of Kinkan. Workers milled about, some carrying individual boxes while others manipulated forklifts with many crates. A nearby sign boasted of the latest security measures that were being enforced and what would happen to anyone caught breaking the law.

Fakir stood with folded arms as he surveyed all of that as well as the gang members who were casually wandering around, acting like nothing was amiss. "This is a big job for your first heist here," he said coldly. "Is that really smart?"

"It's what Anton wanted." One of the gangsters, whose name Fakir did not know, walked past as he spoke. "He was very clear. He gave us a list of the places he wanted taken care of and we memorized it."

"Bully for you," Fakir said.

His guard came up beside him. "It won't be any problem at all, especially with you around," he said. "Isn't that right?"

Fakir's eyes narrowed. "I'll do what has to be done, for my loved ones' sakes," he said. "You don't have to worry."

"I'm not." The thug gave a cruel sneer. "I know you're devoted to those people, even though I have no idea why. They won't get you places."

"They'll get me where I want to be," Fakir retorted.

"Right now they've got you into being one of us," the gang member said, spreading his arms in a wide gesture. "Did you ever think about it like that? You could get out of this mess if you weren't so worried about them."

Fakir clenched a fist. The guy was trying to egg him on and get him to lose his temper. Either that or he wanted Fakir to decide to abandon Ahiru and Charon. But there would not be any reason for that; the gang would not benefit. As long as Ahiru's and Charon's lives were the price, they had Fakir's unwilling services.

"I couldn't get out anyway," he said, forcing himself to not raise his voice. "Your boss won't ever let me go, not when I'm so valuable to him. If I started writing anything to defy him, even if my loved ones weren't at stake, I'd be caught and punished for it."

"Good boy." The guard smirked. "You know the conditions."

"I'm not an idiot. You've been drilling them into my head since you took me," Fakir snarled.

"You came willingly," the man grinned.

"Only because Ahiru was being held at gunpoint." Fakir wanted to get away from here. This was not a conversation he desired to be having.

"You're so noble and good, aren't you." The sentry tapped him on the back with his scarcely concealed gun. "But maybe you're really being selfish. Did you think about that? These nuts you care about would probably rather be dead than to have you helping criminals for their sakes."

Fakir whirled around, his patience gone. "Shut up!" he bellowed. "You aren't a therapist. Quit analyzing me!" His eyes flashed with hatred and fire.

Instead of looking concerned or backing away, his tormenter just gave him a wicked smile. "You know it's true," he said.

Fakir snarled. "I don't need you to tell me anything."

With that he stormed away from his captor, walking around the side of a stack of crates. His chest was heaving and his nostrils were flaring in his anger. He leaned against the wooden boxes, staring up into the sky.

Was it true? Were his motives only selfish because he could not stand to see Ahiru and Charon killed? Would they rather die instead of condemning Fakir to this?

His heart raced. Anton had also said that Fakir would be killed after them if he disobeyed. That was surely not something Ahiru and Charon would want. But was he only trying to justify his own desire to not die?

He balled up his fist and slammed it backwards against a crate. What was he even thinking? He could never stop fighting for his loved ones. It would be selfish to just in essence give up and allow them all to be killed. And it would be running away.

He had done enough running in the past. No more. He would face this and find a way out of it, as he had already determined to do. And then he would go home to his family.

He pushed himself away from the boxes. That sentry was just trying to further manipulate him in his damaged mental state. And he would not allow it. The guilt and anguish from causing Autor's death was almost overwhelming. The only thing keeping him grounded was the knowledge that Ahiru's and Charon's lives were in his hands. He would not give them up.

With new vigor he cast his gaze about, seeking the gang members. Up ahead, Heimbrecht was on his phone. Fakir frowned, studying the guy's face. Whatever was going on in that conversation, he did not seem pleased. He stepped closer, trying to overhear.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Heimbrecht pulled the cellphone away and flipped it closed. Noticing Fakir standing nearby, he glared. "So you're eavesdropping now?" he said.

"I have to be in this mess," Fakir said. "I want to know what's going to be happening."

"I'll tell you what's going to be happening," Heimbrecht said. "At midnight tonight, this place gets raided. I've been put in charge of the operation, since I work at the company and know the ropes of the security system and the layout of the warehouses. And not only are we going to be heavily watching you to make sure you don't do dumb and stupid things, Anton just might show up too."

Fakir's eyes widened in his surprise. "What for?" he said. "Doesn't he trust you guys to handle this?"

"I'm not sure," Heimbrecht growled, squinting at Fakir. "He said something about having been there when Ambrosius wrote up his first heist Story and that he wanted to witness the next generation doing the same thing." He glowered at the teen. "You're going to have a lot more pressure on you than ever. Think about that."

Suddenly Fakir got it. "You're going to have a lot of pressure too, aren't you," he said. "Anton was probably threatening you on the phone just now. If I go against orders and he sees it, he'll do something to punish you for it."

Heimbrecht stepped closer, waving his forefinger in Fakir's face. "Just remember," he said. "Every single one of us can make life a living Hell for you. It's not just Anton and his threats against your loved ones that you have to watch out for."

Fakir met his gaze, his green eyes filled with steel. "Every single one of you has already made life a living Hell for me," he said. "You held Ahiru at gunpoint. You forced me to end up killing Autor. You're keeping tabs on Ahiru and Charon everywhere they go, hanging the threatening swords of their deaths over my head. And all the while, I'm supposed to make sure your robberies go picture-perfect, no matter who gets hurt. I can't think of a worse Hell to be stuck in."

Heimbrecht cursed him. "Then you'd better hope you never find out how much worse it could be." He turned, stalking away to round up the other gang members for their departure.

Fakir observed, his visage dark. Maybe it was terrible, but part of him liked that Anton had made one of the other gangsters squirm a bit.

It served the guy right to have even just a fraction of fear for his life after his part in what he had been putting Fakir and the others through.

And from the look in Heimbrecht's eyes, he had more than just a fraction of fear.

xxxx

Charon let out a weary sigh as he sank down at a table in the hotel's formal dining room. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. Despite having driven all through the night, he had not been able to relax and rest.

Hopefully the kids were slumbering. Autor had definitely been asleep when Charon had quietly moved to leave the room. And when Charon had carefully opened the connecting door between rooms, Ahiru had been sprawled on her bed clutching a pillow.

He gave an idle glance around the dining room at the other patrons. He was certainly not dressed appropriately to be in here, wearing an old work shirt and faded trousers, but he could not care less. His missing son might be somewhere in this very city. How could he worry about foolish dress codes in a place too fancy for its own good anyway?

He reached into his pocket, taking out the photograph of Fakir and holding it in his tired hands. The picture was growing somewhat bent now, from being handled and shown to so many people, but the image was still clear. He set it on the table, continuing to gaze at it.

Fakir appeared serious in it, as usual, and maybe a bit annoyed. He had never really liked having his picture taken. Raetsel usually had to tease and prod him into it. And now that Ahiru was around, she would beg and plead and grab his arm to drag him in front of the camera.

A slight smile of amusement crossed Charon's face. There was a picture in one of the albums of Ahiru pulling Fakir into camera range, having locked her left arm around his right arm while enthusiastically waving at the camera and its operator with her right hand. Meanwhile, Fakir looked nothing less than disgruntled.

What Charon would give to have those times return again.

A shocked gasp brought him abruptly back to the present. He looked up to discover a boy of around thirteen standing by the table, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared at the photograph.

"Is something wrong?" Charon asked.

The boy turned to him, seeming both embarrassed and worried. "I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "Please forgive me for being rude. My brother is meeting someone here for lunch and I was walking around the room while we're waiting for him to come. I couldn't help but see that picture you have. It surprised me."

Charon stiffened. "Why is that?" he demanded.

The youth rocked back, unsure of what to make of Charon's urgency. "Well," he said slowly, "I'm sure I saw him today at a café."

Charon shot to his feet. "What café?" he demanded. "When was this?"

The boy stared at him in amazement. "Angelina's," he said. "It's Italian. It's near an industrial park; a lot of workers eat there, and sometimes business people, like my brother." He glanced at the picture once more, then back at Charon. "We were there around nine A.M. I thought he seemed upset about something, but he insisted he was fine. Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"Yes, but it isn't his fault," Charon said. "Was anyone with him?"

"There was a man in the booth with him," was the reply. "I have to say, I didn't like the looks of him. There was a look in his eyes that just seemed cruel. Maybe that sounds silly, but . . ."

"It makes perfect sense," Charon interrupted. "Could you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't forget a face like his," said the boy.

"Good," Charon said. "The boy is my son. If you can identify the man he's with, it could help bring him back sooner."

The teenager hesitated, looking at the picture. "I'm positive he was the one I saw," he said, half to himself. Louder he said, "Is he being held against his will?"

"You could say that," Charon said.

"I haven't heard any news about him being kidnapped," the boy said in surprise.

Somehow Charon was not surprised. He was, however, angry. Kirsch had said he would be getting the word out. Could Autor be right and Kirsch was an enemy who had not done as promised? Or could someone else on the police force have intercepted Kirsch's reports and not allowed them to go out? Right now it would be frustratingly hard to learn whatever was the actual truth.

"Did your brother see him too?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so," said the youth. "Oh, my name's Leonhard, by the way."

Charon nodded in acknowledgment. "Would you be able to write down the address of this café?" he wanted to know.

"Of course," Leonhard said. "But he's gone now; he left with that weird guy before Siegfried and I did." He reached for a piece of paper and took a pen, quickly jotting out the address.

"He might still be in the area. Or if nothing else, someone else may have seen him too." Charon reached for the paper. "Thank you."

"I hope you find him, sir," Leonhard said. "I want to help in any way I can."

Charon was both touched and relieved. "We need all the help we can find," he said. "Would I be able to speak with your brother?"

Leonhard glanced over at another table. "It looks like the guy we're waiting for hasn't come yet," he said. "I'm sure Siegfried would be happy to talk with you." He started to walk away. "I'll introduce you, Mr. . . ."

"Charon is fine," Charon said as he followed.

An eccentric-looking man glanced up from a menu as they approached. "What's this?" he said, raising an eyebrow at Charon's manner of dress. "Leonhard, have you found a new friend?"

"Siegfried, this is Mr. Charon," Leonhard said. "He's looking for that guy we saw in the café. Remember, the one I thought was upset?"

Siegfried gave a thoughtful frown and a nod. "Yes, I remember," he said.

"He's my son," Charon said, stepping forward. "He's been abducted by a gang. If you can remember anything about what happened at the café, it might help find him."

Siegfried set the menu aside, giving Charon his full attention. "I would be happy to try to help," he said, lacing his fingers in front of him on the table, "but I doubt I know any more about the situation than what Leonhard has surely told you."

"I would be grateful if you'd tell me anyway," Charon said.

"Very well," said Siegfried with a casual gesture at the other side of the table. "Please sit down."

Charon pulled out a chair and did so. Leonhard sat next to his brother. Siegfried brushed his long hair over his shoulder, gathering his thoughts.

"As I recall, they were already in the café when we arrived," he said. "The boy didn't seem very cheerful, but I assumed it was his personality and thought nothing more of it. The man he was with did appear rather severe, however."

"Could you describe him?" Charon asked.

Siegfried frowned. "He was in his forties, I believe. And he was tall and rough and likely somewhat muscular. I didn't take much stock in him other than that.

"Leonhard went over to talk to the boy . . ."

"Fakir," Charon interjected, only realizing now that he had never given the name and how awkward that was turning out to be.

"Fakir," Siegfried corrected himself. "He was not willing to offer any information about himself. He said he was fine." A slight frown crossed his features. "I remember noticing that the man he was with seemed pleased by that. He gave an odd sort of smirk."

_Of course he would,_ Charon thought to himself. _He'd be sadistically delighted that Fakir wouldn't tell anything._

"They lingered a while after Leonhard left them," Siegfried continued. "They looked to be having an intense discussion. Then they got up and left."

"Did you see what direction they went in after going out?" Charon wanted to know.

"They turned left," Leonhard broke in. "I saw them through the window."

"What would they find if they kept going left?" Charon asked of them both.

"Warehouses mostly," Siegfried said, "and some office buildings, all in an industrial park. I have several of both there myself."

"I see," Charon frowned.

He hesitated a moment. "This gang that's taken my son is planning to commit several robberies in town," he said.

Siegfried gave him his full attention. "Do you know anything else?"

"No," Charon said. "Is what's stored in these warehouses valuable?"

"A lot of it is," Siegfried said. "Not only for me but for many other people as well."

"Maybe we should increase security, Siegfried," Leonhard said in concern. "If they were going towards the industrial park, maybe they're planning to rob someone's warehouse."

"It's quite an assumption to make," Siegfried said.

"But one that's logical enough," Charon said. "I'd advise you to at least look into it . . . or to let me. If my son is there . . ."

"Feel free to look around," Siegfried interrupted. "And I hope you will find your son. Although I can't imagine how you plan to get him back from a gang such as this. Have you notified the police? They are the ones who are actually supposed to handle such investigations."

"I've talked with them about it," Charon said, "but I have reason to suspect that there may be enemies on the police force who are getting in the way of the investigation." He looked Siegfried in the eyes. "Can you honestly tell me that if your brother was taken, you would leave everything to the police and not try to get him back yourself?"

Siegfried almost imperceptibly flinched. "You have made your point," he said as he averted his gaze. "You may look around my company's warehouses if you see fit to do so."

"Thank you," Charon said as he began to rise.

"But I do request that you do not get in the way of my workers, who are loading one of the warehouses with a new shipment that came this morning," Siegfried added.

"That's fair enough," Charon said. He held out his hand. "I'll let you know what happens."

Siegfried reached over the table and gave one firm shake. "I look forward to it."

At the same moment a new voice came on the scene.

"What is this? I hope my tardiness hasn't caused you to make your business deal with someone else, Mr. Von Schroeder. And one who doesn't know how to dress in a formal dining room at that."

Charon froze, his eyes narrowing in immediate dislike of the newcomer. As the dark-haired, somewhat heavyset men approached the table, Charon stepped away from it.

"I was seeing Mr. Von Schroeder on another matter," he said, his tone sharp and cold. "My business with him is over . . . for now, at least."

"Very good," the obnoxious businessman said while pulling out a chair to sit down.

Leonhard looked to Charon with helpless, apologetic eyes. Charon's hard expression softened and he nodded to the boy, letting him know it was alright. Then he moved away, heading towards the door.

He had to get to the industrial district.

xxxx

Autor was surprised when he began to slowly return to the world of the aware. As he opened his eyes, what greeted him were bright red lights flashing on and off. He squinted, bringing several numbers into clearer view.

Now he knew what he was looking at. But could the clock next to the bed actually be giving the correct time? He sat up, running a hand into his bangs. The timepiece was close enough that he thought he was seeing it correctly, but maybe he was wrong. And even after the rest, he was still tired.

With a sigh he reached for his glasses and slipped them on. The clock _was_ correct. And a quick glance around the room told him that he was alone.

He frowned. Had Charon ever slept? Or had he wandered out somewhere to begin searching, hoping to do so without Autor and Ahiru there as well?

On the other hand, what if Ahiru had gone with him? Maybe neither of them wanted Autor along after his fall. Maybe they hoped that he would stay here and recover further.

Well, he felt perfectly able to join them in any search they might be making. And in spite of his fears that he would plunge them into another disaster, he was determined to push those feelings aside and help Charon and Ahiru, if there was anything he could do. He had to help get Fakir back.

He pulled back the comforter and swung his legs out from under it. As he pushed himself off the bed he crossed to the connecting room's door and gave a soft knock. There was no answer. Slowly he turned the knob, easing the door open a crack.

Ahiru was sprawled on her bed, her hair unbraided and going in every direction. One arm was behind her head and she seemed to be gazing at the ceiling. She did not turn or appear to notice Autor at all.

Autor frowned, uncertain of what to make of this. Had she slept? Was she trying to go to sleep now after a bout of insomnia?

"Ahiru?" he said at last.

Ahiru yelped and gave a violent start, nearly rolling off the bed. "Don't sneak up on me like that!" she wailed, grabbing for the bedpost.

Autor opened the door more and stepped into the room. "Are you suggesting that the next time I'm unsure if you're asleep or indecent, I should bang furiously on the door and risk waking you up?" he said.

Ahiru made a face. "No," she said. "But did you knock at all?"

"Yes, I did," Autor retorted.

Ahiru sighed and sat up. "I didn't hear anything," she said. "I had this dream about Fakir and it woke me up. I couldn't go back to sleep after something like that."

Autor frowned. "Was it a bad dream?"

Ahiru gave a slow nod. "Yeah." She looked down at the bedspread. "We found Fakir at a robbery and the police came and arrested everyone. Fakir too. I went running after them, trying to tell them that Fakir didn't want to do anything wrong, but . . ." She trailed off, her shoulders shaking. "It didn't seem to matter." She looked up at Autor again. "Will they really take him away, Autor? If he has to help the gang steal things, then will they think of him as a crook too?"

Autor hesitated. "They shouldn't," he said. "He was forced into this against his will." He exhaled, pushing up his glasses. "I don't claim to know a great deal about law enforcement, but I can't believe they would condemn Fakir if they knew everything about the case."

"They'd better not!" Ahiru cried, slamming her hand on the bed. "If they do, I'll . . . I'll . . ." She frowned. "Well, I'd do something," she muttered.

In an attempt to divert her attention she suddenly grabbed at her hair, desperate in an attempt to separate it into three sections and begin to re-braid it. But her hands were shaking and her fingers would not cooperate. The sections would not overlap properly. When she accidentally braided a finger in between two sections she let out a frustrated wail.

"You're too upset to do that," Autor said.

"I need to do it!" Ahiru insisted, sounding at the verge of hysteria. "My hair's all long and gets everywhere and I can't have it hanging loose like this and . . ."

Autor cleared his throat, turning a bit red at what he was about to suggest. "If you want, Ahiru, I could do that for you," he said.

She looked up at him with a start, her eyes wide in surprise. "You'd do that?" she said. "You'd braid my hair?"

Autor nodded. "Yes."

Ahiru thought for a moment. "I don't think anyone else has ever braided my hair," she realized. She broke into a smile. "I'd like that. Thank you, Autor."

Autor went a deeper red as he came closer. He reached for her hair, taking it in his hands as he separated it and then began to cross the sections. Ahiru sat patiently, still surprised and trying to decide what she thought of this. By the time he came to the end of the braid and was affixing the clasp to hold it in place, her mood had greatly improved.

"There," he said, stepping back. "It's done."

Ahiru reached and brought the braid over her shoulder so she could see it. "It's really nice!" she said. "You did a great job, Autor. Have you braided hair before?"

Now he was completely red. "No," he said as he pushed up his glasses. "I never have."

"You'd never know it!" Ahiru proclaimed.

She hopped off the bed. "Where's Charon?"

"I'm not sure," Autor admitted. "He wasn't in the room."

"Maybe he's downstairs," Ahiru said. "Let's get dressed and go down and see. Okay?"

"Alright," Autor consented.

With that he returned to his room, thoughtfully changing out of his pajamas and into day clothes. He would not wear his school uniform now, although the ruffled white shirt and cravat he selected looked similar to what was assigned as part of the boys' uniform. He added brown pants, a matching vest, and dark socks and shoes before going back to the connecting door. "Are you dressed yet?" he called.

"Yep!" Ahiru called back. She opened the door from her side, sporting a blue dress with her white hat. "What do you think?"

"Very nice," Autor said.

"I like yours too," Ahiru said, and promptly linked arms with him. "Let's go!"

Amused, Autor studied their position. "Whose door are we using?" he asked. "It could look potentially scandalous either way."

"Oh. Right." Ahiru pulled back. "We'll use our own doors and meet up in the hall!" she declared.

Autor consented. Moments later they were in the hall and Ahiru was latching on to Autor's arm again.

"You don't think Charon would leave without writing a note or something, do you?" she said as they walked towards the elevator.

"I would hope not," Autor said. "But if he didn't want us to come along I suppose he might."

"We were supposed to eat before going anywhere," Ahiru said. "Maybe he's in the dining room."

"It's worth a look, anyway," Autor said.

Upon arriving downstairs, however, there was no sign of Charon in the dining room or anywhere else. Ahiru was distressed.

"He really did leave without us and without even telling us anything!" she exclaimed.

Autor was displeased himself, although he could understand Charon's viewpoint. "Maybe he'll be back before long," he said. "In the meantime, perhaps we should stick to our original plan and get something to eat. You're hungry, aren't you?"

Ahiru gave a weak, sad nod.

"Then come on," Autor said, gently leading her back towards the dining room. "We'll decide what to do after our meal."

Ahiru shuffled her feet in that direction, but her mind was far away. She cast a woeful glance out a window as they passed.

_Fakir, even if we can't be there, I hope Charon finds you,_ she silently said. _And I hope you won't have to go to jail. We need to all go home together._

With that she walked with Autor into the dining room.


	12. The Clock Ticked

**Notes: Since this is more of a transitional chapter, I'm posting it ahead of schedule. That will then cause 13, which is a very big chapter, to also be posted sooner than it would have been originally. Thanks to Moon Shadow Magic for help with some things in this chapter!**

**Chapter Twelve**

Charon was worried.

Nothing had been amiss in the industrial park when he had arrived. All of the warehouses, including Siegfried von Schroeder's, were untouched—not that he thought the gang would be so bold as to attack in the middle of the day. No one suspicious had been seen lurking around, either. The workers had been blasé and unconcerned.

But it was still a possibility that the gang might be planning an attack. Other than the warehouses' contents, there was not much of value in this part of town. It was doubtful that the police would or could do anything on such flimsy evidence, but Charon wondered if they needed to be called.

Still, part of him hesitated. What would happen if they came during the heist and found Fakir composing a Story that would help the gang get away? Would they arrest Fakir too, in spite of the horrifying circumstances surrounding his actions?

On the other hand, maybe it depended on how much the outside world knew and believed in the tales of the Story-Spinners. Charon had not traveled far outside of Kinkan since Drosselmeyer's tyranny had ended. It was possible that Story-Spinners were a thing of fairytales and legends, something to be scoffed at and not believed. In that case, Fakir would surely not be arrested just for holding a pad and paper and using them for their intended purpose.

Would he be arrested simply for being with the gang? Leonhard had said that he had not heard anything about Fakir being kidnapped. And if the notice had not gone out at all, as it was supposed to have done, the police could easy enough think that Fakir was just another gang member and arrest him too.

Maybe Charon could place an anonymous call to the police and tell them about the possibility of a robbery at the industrial park in the next several days. He could also say that the gang had a boy with them whom they had kidnapped from Kinkan Town and give Fakir's description. He might be able to discern if it sounded as though the police knew about the abduction.

He clenched a fist in agonized frustration. If only he knew whether or not he could trust Kirsch! He had never had doubts before and he did not want to now, but Autor's concerns about a spy unfortunately made sense. Now he was not sure who could be trusted other than Autor and Ahiru. It would certainly help if he could know that they had a friend on the police force.

He stood where he was, indecisive for a long moment. The kids might be awake now. Maybe he should go back to the hotel and find them before doing anything else. Hopefully they would not decide to go out looking for him. He had to believe that Autor would keep Ahiru grounded if she wanted to do that.

He started to turn, intending to head back to the car. Instead a nearby payphone caught his eye. He frowned at it, undecided again. Should he place the call?

At last he walked over to it. Hefting the provided phonebook, he soon located the number of the police department and began to dial. Once he hesitated, almost not finishing the input. But then he tapped out the rest of the digits in determination. The phone rang, droning endlessly in his ears. Was this the right thing to do? Should he hang up?

There was a _click_ before he could make up his mind. Then the desk sergeant was introducing himself.

Charon drew a deep breath. "Are you looking for Anton Schuster's gang?"

He could hear the other man stiffening. "Who is this?" From the tone of voice, the sergeant wondered if it was a prank or a false lead.

"I'm someone who knows they've come here to Munich," Charon said. "Are you aware that they have a kidnapped boy with them from Kinkan Town?"

There was a shuffling of paper. "There was a report on that, yes." Charon rejoiced. "Have you seen them in town?" Now the sergeant had seemed to accept that Charon wanted to remain unknown. He was more interested in the purpose of the call rather than names.

"Not personally." Charon prayed this would keep the policeman's attention anyway. "But they were seen, going towards an industrial park near an Italian restaurant." He gave the address. "There's a chance they're planning to rob a warehouse in the next few days."

"Do you have any more evidence than this?" It sounded like the sergeant was scratching it down on a pad of paper.

"Not aside from knowing that they want to rob somewhere in town," Charon said. "I don't know where it is for certain, but these warehouses seem like a good guess."

"A plainclothesman will investigate." The sergeant was gruff. "What about the boy? Is he hurt at all?"

Charon's heart twisted. "I don't know," he said honestly.

"Does the gang know you?"

The murder attempt leaped to the forefront of his mind. "I'd say so."

"And you won't give your name?"

"I'd rather not," Charon said at last. "I just want to see that justice is done and the boy is returned safe."

"We'll do what we can. I trust you'll call if you learn anything more definite?"

"If I can," Charon said.

He hung up, breathing a sigh of relief. The police knew about the kidnapping. Maybe that meant Kirsch was trustworthy, as Charon had believed. He certainly hoped so.

Again he moved towards the car, this time feeling more confident that he had done as he should have.

xxxx

Many kilometers away in Kinkan Town, Detective Thomas Kirsch was also worried.

He was certainly not unaware that Charon, as well as his legal charge Ahiru and her friend Autor, had all disappeared. No one in town seemed to know where they had gone, including Charon's former charge Raetsel and her husband Hans. They only knew that Charon had quietly left the horse in their care for a while, but he had done that at other times when he knew he would be very busy.

Very busy doing what?

Kirsch knew what he was afraid they were off doing this time, and though he prayed he was wrong, he was sure he was not. They had likely all determined to set out in search of Fakir, not telling anyone because of fear of being prevented from going.

Charon was a responsible man. He had looked after some of the town's orphans for years. He would not deliberately put either Ahiru or Autor in danger, Kirsch was certain of that. But Charon was desperate to find Fakir and bring him home. To that end, he might end up being reckless with his own life.

Kirsch had to find him as well as Fakir. But he did not know where to begin looking.

The municipal police did not even have power in a large-scale case such as this. The state police were the ones who should be handling this major of a case, but for some reason it was not happening.

Kirsch had realized that something was wrong after hearing about the sniper brought in after attempting to shoot an old farmer who lived on the road the gang had traveled. There were holes in the story, leading Kirsch to believe that either the farmer was not telling everything or that his report had been edited.

Kirsch only knew about it because he had done some digging on his own time in an attempt to learn anything that could connect with the case. With this happening right in his own town, and more importantly, with Charon being an old friend, he had felt a certain responsibility to do everything he could to rescue Fakir.

When he had gone to visit the farmer himself, he had learned several very disturbing facts left out of the official report. Charon, Ahiru, and Autor had been there at the time, and were in fact the actual ones the sniper had been shooting at. The police who had been supposed to interview the farmer in case he had seen the gang had never arrived. And he _had_ in fact seen them and even entertained them in his home for one night.

Someone in the state police did not want the investigation to go forward. They were trying everything in their power to erase news of anything connected with it. And that could only mean either that they were part of Schuster's gang or that they were being paid off by the gang to keep it quiet. It could have even been the officer Kirsch had spoken to when he had called to report the case. And if it was someone else, the person Kirsch had talked to was probably being kept busy so as not to realize that the investigation was not moving forward.

Kirsch was furious. On his own he had started sending copies of the initial kidnapping report to all the major cities in Germany in the hopes that it would finally start to spread from there. But it was not enough. He wanted to get out there and join the investigation himself, especially now that he was certain it was what Charon was doing.

At last he had requested a short leave of a few days, giving as his reason that he needed to take care of some important personal matters. It had been granted, but now that he had the time he still did not know what to do with it.

He was praying to learn of a clue, anything that would let him know of a continuation for his own search. At the moment he had driven clear to the end of the rural road and was sitting at a crossroads, unsure of what to do next.

"It would be a lot closer to Munich than any other major city right now," he spoke aloud. "But would Anton Schuster's gang really go there?"

It seemed more likely that they would want to get as far away as possible. On the other hand, maybe that was what they would want any pursuers to think. If there was one thing he had learned during his long observance of the investigation, it was that Anton Schuster was smart. Somehow he always seemed to be one or even two steps ahead of the police.

Kirsch longed to be part of the unit that would eventually be sent in to bring the kingpin down. Loyalty to Kinkan was the main thing that kept him grounded in the municipal police instead of applying for the state police. But really, there was very little crime in Kinkan overall. And the major offenses still had to be reported to the state police. He would likely be able to do more good there than in his current position.

Considering that would not help his present situation, however. He gripped the steering wheel, debating his choices. At last he turned it to the right, his decision sealed.

Munich was closer. It would make more sense to search there first. If Anton Schuster had put his usual smarts to the test, he might have likely sent the gang there assuming that the police would look further away instead.

It was a possibility that had to be examined in any case.

Even moreso when Charon and those kids with him had to be found too.

xxxx

Ahiru was having a hard time concentrating. She had barely been able to focus on the menu to determine her order or on the waiter to give it. When the food had arrived, the tantalizing scent had drawn her out of her ruminations long enough to admire it and begin to eat. As Autor tried to talk to her, however, she found that she was continually drifting into her own world. Well, either that or she was drifting into paying attention solely to the food.

But suddenly Autor exclaimed, "It's Charon! He's coming in!"

Ahiru's fork clattered to her plate. "He is?" she cried, looking around the dining hall. "Where?"

"He's near the entrance," Autor told her. He stood up, both wanting a better view and hoping to attract Charon's attention.

He received both. Seeing him, Charon moved toward their table at a brisk pace. Autor sat back down, relieved and pleased.

Ahiru leapt to her feet as Charon approached. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "Did you go looking for Fakir without us?"

Charon sighed. "I needed to look into something," he said. Pulling out a chair, he sank into it.

Ahiru sat back down as well, but leaned forward. "What was it?" she persisted. "Do you know where Fakir is?"

"I know where he _was_," Charon corrected. "And where he might be before long."

He proceeded to relate what had transpired in the past few hours. Both teens listened in stunned shock. In spite of themselves, a bit of hope was beginning to form—as well as more worry.

"We did come to the right place!" Ahiru cheered. "Fakir's right here in the city!"

"And going to help the gang rob a place in the city," Autor frowned.

Ahiru sobered. "What are we going to do?" she said, her voice lowering.

"I don't know." Charon shook his head. "Fakir could be taken and arrested with the rest of them. Then again, if the police don't know or don't believe in Story-Spinning, there might not be any problem."

"There shouldn't be anyway!" Ahiru retorted. "Fakir isn't a crook! The gang's forcing him into this!"

"They're probably giving him dire threats," Autor said.

Charon nodded. "At least the police do know he's been kidnapped," he said. "I found that out." He told them of his phone call.

"That should make a difference too!" Ahiru said.

"It should," Charon agreed, "but I don't know if it will."

"We have to watch that industrial place," Ahiru barreled on. "Maybe we'll see Fakir and we can get him back!"

"We're not going to do anything dangerous!" Charon inserted, his voice stern.

Ahiru gripped her fork. "But . . . you're going to go, aren't you, Charon?" she said.

For a moment Charon was silent. "Yes," he admitted at last. From his tone, he was not going to relent—either about going or about Ahiru and Autor staying behind.

"The gang wants you dead as well," Autor spoke. "Or at least, that's how it appears. What if something happens to you? What will we do then?"

Charon looked away. Autor was right. He could argue that he would be careful, but that was the same argument Autor and Ahiru could make. And maybe he would be able to handle himself better in hand-to-hand combat, but if the gang decided to shoot him down his chances would be the same as the kids'.

"I was under the impression that we had all decided we would be safer if we stayed together," Autor noted.

"That was before finding out how things were going to go," Charon said gruffly.

"If the gang has lost track of us, we should be safe enough," Autor said.

"And if I take you both to that industrial park, they might find us again," Charon snapped.

"You called the police," Autor pointed out. "If they decide to take stock in your warning, they will be there. But . . . that isn't good enough, is it."

Charon did not need to reply. They all knew it was not, especially when Fakir might end up arrested along with the gang. Each of them wanted to be there too.

Autor spoke again. "Any of us are in danger if we go, including you. I say we should either all stay behind or all go."

Ahiru looked back and forth between him and Charon, her eyes wide and hopeful. They _had_ to be allowed to go. They could find Fakir and get him back. She did not want to be left behind; she wanted to be there, to witness what was happening . . . to help. If she could.

"Charon?" she said softly. "You feel like it's worth risking your safety to go. Well . . . Autor and I feel the same about ours. But we'd do everything we could to stay okay, just as I'm sure you would about yourself."

"And any of us could fail," Autor admitted. "We're all aware of that. But to get Fakir back, we have to take some risks."

Charon was conflicted. He had given in so much on this journey because of what he longed to do and felt he must do in order to try to save Fakir. He had gone against his better judgment so many times. But could he really continue putting them both in danger? What if something happened to them?

. . . What if something happened to _him,_ as Autor had already asked?

"If we go, you have to stay in the car," he said finally.

Ahiru stared at him, her eyes wide. Suddenly she was unsure whether to rejoice or to protest.

"But what if Fakir's there?" she blurted. "Can't we go out to him or call to him or _something?_"

Charon was silent another long moment. "That depends on what's happening if we see him," he said.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to charge the gang, knock them all to the ground and send them running in fear and panic. He wanted to run to his son, holding him close and refusing to let any of those wretches near him again. He wanted to take Fakir back to Kinkan, where there were no robberies, no threats, and no gang.

But what he wanted to do and what he would be able to do were likely two different things. He could not do something foolish that would endanger all of their lives.

Albeit that was really what he was doing by consenting that Ahiru and Autor could come along. Wasn't it?

Maybe he was counting too much on his ability to keep them safe, as well as on Ahiru's powers of becoming Princess Tutu. She was not able to do that whenever she wanted, and even being Tutu was no guarantee of well-being.

He had long ago given his blessing for Fakir to take on the duties of being Mytho's knight. It had been then, on that dark night, when he had come to acknowledge that Fakir was growing up and that he had to let the boy follow his own path. He had accused Fakir of being afraid. Perhaps that had been true—but he could not have been more afraid than Charon himself.

Charon was afraid now as well. He was familiar with this gang. He knew what they were capable of. And because of his frantic quest to get Fakir back, he had agreed to take Ahiru and Autor into the lions' den.

It had started out as a simple idea, just visiting everyone along that road and asking questions about the gang's passage and Fakir. But they had not been able to stop with that, not after what they had learned. And deep down, what upset Charon the most was that he had known that would happen. He had known, and he had pressed forward anyway.

And could he really stop now, when they were so close?

He knew the same thing as before—he could not. Neither could Ahiru and Autor.

"If anything happens to either of you, God have mercy on my soul," he muttered. "Because I won't have any."

Ahiru looked down. "I'm sorry, Charon. You understand, don't you? We have to come. We have to be there, to try to save Fakir. Because . . . even if we can't do anything, we'll never know if we aren't there."

"And if there is a chance to save him, and we don't take it, we'll never forgive ourselves for not finding out if we could have got him back," Autor added.

Charon gave a tired, weary nod. "I understand," he said. "I know. Believe me, I know."

He leaned back. "I didn't feel like eating earlier," he remarked, glancing at Ahiru's and Autor's plates. "What do they have?"

"Lots of good stuff!" Ahiru exclaimed. "I'm sure anything you order is delicious!"

Charon managed a smile. "Alright then," he said, lifting a menu.

xxxx

If there was one thing Anton's gang loved more than cruelty, it was luxury.

Fakir sat on a fancy white couch in an equally fancy, spacious room. The couch and the room were part of one of the gang's hideouts—a large house owned by Heimbrecht. While the man was at work, the rest of the gang members milled around the abode, waiting for him as well as for the rest of their number—including Anton himself.

Every few minutes Fakir glanced at the grandfather clock across the room, watching the movement of the golden hands. A few seconds passed, then a minute, then several more. It felt like an eon.

He crossed his arms in frustrated impatience. He was not even sure what to make of such a house. He had been raised by Charon to appreciate the simpler things in life. He was so used to their small house attached to the antique shop that he doubted he could ever be at peace living somewhere so rich. To him, it would feel like wasted space that could be put to better use.

Ahiru would probably be happy living anywhere. She was fascinated by all kinds of houses. She could easily adapt to any situation in which she found herself.

And then Autor was Fakir's opposite. He had been raised by probably the wealthiest people in Kinkan outside of government officials. He had tasted the threat of poverty, however, and considered it something to be feared and avoided at all costs. His childhood had fallen away as he had worked hard to keep hold of everything his family had earned. He could never be happy living somewhere like the antique shop.

Why did Fakir have to continually refer to Autor as though he were alive? He was not. He was _dead._ And sometime or another Fakir was going to have to fully accept it.

Maybe he was trying to focus on anything other than what was to happen once it was dark. It was then that the gang would commit its first heinous crime with Fakir as an unwilling participant. And even though Fakir had thought he had decided there was nothing to do but play along for the time being, here he was at practically the eleventh hour, desperate to come up with a way out of this horror. He did not want to be a thief.

On the couch next to him was the paper holder, stacked with white sheets. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it. If only he could write something opposite to what the gang expected, without being discovered or held at fault.

But sitting across from him was his attentive guard, revolver in hand. It was hopeless. The moment he would try grabbing for his utensils the thug would be up and over to the couch to stop it.

Still, Fakir was battling with his feelings. He had to protect Charon and Ahiru. But they would never want him to help the gang. Wasn't there any way he would not have to?

He sank back against the couch. Right now, it did not look very likely.

Behind him, the clock continued to tick.


	13. The First Robbery

**Chapter Thirteen**

Waiting was the hardest part.

It was completely dark, yet it was lighter at night than Fakir had ever seen it. The industrial park was filled with lampposts, as well as various windows in the different office buildings that remained lit.

Were there still people in all of them? Fakir cursed to himself. If there were, then there were many chances for unsuspecting innocents to wander outside and end up killed.

The guard tapped him on the head. "You'd better have your writing pad ready," he growled. "The instant something goes wrong, you're going to fix it."

"If something goes wrong it's your mistake," Fakir retorted. "I shouldn't have to clean up after you."

The thug swore. "After all this, you're still talking like that?" His eyes narrowed. "I would've thought you would have learned a little respect by now, especially considering what you know we can do."

"I'd never respect any of you," Fakir snarled. "You're not worth it. You haven't done anything to earn respect, from me or any other decent person."

The guard shook his gun at Fakir. "You're just lucky we need you, punk," he said. "If you were expendable, I wouldn't waste any time using this on you."

"And then you'd bring the whole neighborhood down on you," Fakir said. "It looks like there's people still working."

"Most of those lights are just security precautions," the sentry sneered. "The workers have all gone home now, except for maybe a night watchman here and there."

"I just wonder what the von Schroeder night watchman will think if he catches Heimbrecht in all this," Fakir said.

"If he does, that's Heimbrecht's problem," was the reply. "Until you conveniently alter the guy's memory of what he saw."

Fakir's eyes widened. "I'm not going to do that!" he cried. It was too much like Drosselmeyer. He had long ago vowed never to write like his crazed ancestor. And he was determined to keep that promise.

The guard brought his gun level with Fakir's forehead. "What did you say?" He waved the weapon in a threatening manner, back and forth in front of Fakir's eyes. "I hope this isn't the next sight that stupid girl sees."

Fakir clenched his teeth. Ahiru. He had to think of Ahiru, and Charon as well. As much as he wanted to defy the gang, he could not, at least not out loud. He would have to control his feelings while he tried to find a way out of this.

The thug nodded in approval at Fakir's silence. "Good," he said. "That's what I want to hear from you. All you're needed for is to write. Anton's going to be watching you too, you know."

"And also Heimbrecht," Fakir said. He smirked at the gangster's visible surprise. "That's right, I already know. You can't shake me up with that news."

The man quickly recovered. "If you know that, then Heimbrecht must have got in your face about making sure you don't let us down," he said. "If something goes wrong, Heimbrecht will be called on the carpet as well as you."

"I don't care what happens to Heimbrecht," Fakir retorted. "I care what happens to my family."

"Then it sounds like another indication that you're not as noble as you think," the guard smirked.

"I don't have to answer to you," Fakir shot back.

While they had been talking, Heimbrecht had been making certain the security system at the largest warehouse was deactivated. Now he was slowly opening the large doors with help from some of the others. They filed inside, Heimbrecht going last.

"Come on," the sentry ordered, pushing Fakir ahead of him. "We have to watch everything that happens. You won't know what you need to write otherwise."

_I know what I need to write,_ Fakir thought bitterly to himself. But he moved forward, stepping towards the open doorway. His shadow was right behind him, gun in hand.

Inside the warehouse, the gang members were loading crates into a van that was parked near the doors. So far everything seemed to be going as planned. Neither Fakir nor his guard was supposed to assist, unless things began to go wrong.

Of course, that was exactly what started to happen.

"Hey! Hey, you! What are you doing?"

The voice rang out of the night, sending a frozen arrow into Fakir's heart. He whirled at the same moment as every other member of the gang. What looked like a bewildered worker was running towards the warehouse, his flashlight bearing down on them.

"Don't take another step!" Fakir's guard snarled, pointing his gun at the hapless man. "Okay, punk. Write!"

No one's attention was on Fakir. He dipped his pen in the ink, frantic to scratch out a sentence in which to save the innocent bystander. And maybe, he thought, just maybe, if he had enough time, he could write himself out of this mess altogether.

But there was really no time to write. It only took seconds for Fakir to realize that this had been an absurd plan. Some things happened far too quickly to allow for Fakir to warp reality with his pen.

The man was angry. He was not stopping. "You're robbing one of Siegfried von Schroeder's warehouses!" he yelled. "I've got a gun. Don't make me use it!"

"Don't make me laugh," Fakir's guard responded. His finger started to wrap around the trigger.

By the time Fakir could write even a word, it would be too late. In his panic, all thoughts of everything other than the current situation were driven from his mind.

"No!" he screamed. In the next instant his paper holder was on the ground and he was diving at the guard in desperation.

The frantic tackle sent the shocked man tumbling off-course. The gun fired harmlessly into the air.

"Get out of here!" Fakir yelled to the worker as he struggled with his captor. "Call the police. Do something; just go!"

The worker stared at the scene, not certain what to make of it. But then he obediently turned and fled.

The gang had given up on gathering any more crates. They were scrambling into the van, preparing to drive it through the doorway.

Fakir's guard had no intention of being run down by the escape vehicle. He swore vilely as he got the upper hand in the fight and thrust Fakir away to stumble and crash into a stack of crates just to the right of the door.

There was no time to gather his bearings. Fakir pushed himself upright, shaking the stars from his vision. He had no idea that at that moment people other than the gang were watching him.

xxxx

By the time Charon drove into the industrial park, havoc was already ensuing. The sound of the gunshot chilled his blood, as well as that of the kids'. Ahiru leaned forward, gripping the seat in front of her.

"What was that?" she cried. "They're shooting! Maybe they shot Fakir! Maybe he's hurt! Maybe he's . . ."

"Maybe nothing happened," Autor cut in. But the strain in his own voice bespoke of his similar fears.

Charon clutched the steering wheel. _Maybe someone other than Fakir was shot._ And would Fakir be arrested as an accessory to murder? This was getting worse all the time. He sped around the next corner, silently praying for his son.

"Look!" Ahiru suddenly cried. "That's Fakir there! I know it's him!" But she only pointed ahead at a dark-haired figure for a brief moment before undoing her safety belt and practically flying out of the car while it was still moving. She had no eyes for the stragglers in the gang who were still loading themselves into the van, nor for the guns each one was clutching. She only saw Fakir as he stood up where he had been pushed, wiping red from the side of his mouth.

"Fakir!" she wailed at the same moment the van's doors closed and the vehicle gunned ahead. _"Fakir!"_

But he could not hear her. The van roared out of the warehouse at that instant, with Ahiru right in its path.

Until without warning arms wrapped around her waist and tackled her out of the way just in time. Struggling and screaming, she fell to the ground with her rescuer.

"What are you doing?" she cried. "Fakir's right there! I have to get to him! Let me go!"

The arms held fast. "Ahiru, you were almost killed!" Autor responded. "Didn't you even see that van?"

Ahiru wrenched away, pushing him back. Her heart pounded in her ears. The van had gone past now and was screeching down the road. And Fakir was nowhere to be seen.

"Now they have him again!" she wailed, too emotionally distraught to really hear or focus on what Autor had told her at all. "You just let them take him! We could have saved him and now he's gone. He's _gone!_"

"We couldn't have done anything!" Autor said, an agonized edge coming into his voice. "Don't you understand, Ahiru? We couldn't have saved him this time! You would have only gotten yourself killed, right in front of his eyes!"

Ahiru flinched. That reached her, but the anguish that had been building throughout this horrible experience was still spilling out.

"You don't know that!" she snapped. "You said that to save Fakir we had to take risks! You didn't really mean it! You didn't mean anything! What kind of a friend are you?"

With that she turned and fled down the street. Autor stared after her, too shaken to even speak. He reached to push up his glasses, his hand trembling.

"She didn't mean that, Autor."

He did not turn to look back at Charon. "She meant it," he rasped. "And she's right. I did let them take Fakir again. She'll never forgive me. I can't believe you will, either."

Charon's heart had already been pierced by the horrifying events of the past few minutes. Autor's words only sank the sword deeper.

"That isn't true!" he said, harsher than he had intended. "Autor, you didn't do anything wrong. You were forced into a situation where you had to make a choice. You had to let Fakir go because of a more immediate problem. Ahiru didn't see the van at all. She would have been killed if you hadn't pulled her away."

"You don't know that," Autor said quietly, echoing Ahiru's words. He turned away, walking towards a different warehouse.

Charon reached after him in vain. "Autor. . . ." He looked in the direction Ahiru had gone. "Ahiru. . . ."

He felt like sinking to his knees in despair. His son was gone again. His daughter was heartbroken and unable to cope with it. And Autor was likewise devastated. If anyone would never forgive Autor for his decision, it was Autor.

"Excuse me, sir?"

He looked up in surprise. An unfamiliar man was coming towards him, his face sheet-white. His hand shook as he gripped a flashlight.

"Do you work here?" he asked.

It was Charon's turn to be surprised. "No," he said. "I came . . . looking for someone."

"I work here," said the man. "I just called the police about a robbery at one of the warehouses. I was working late and I saw it. . . ."

"Did you see a teenage boy with dark hair in a ponytail?" Charon demanded.

The other man blinked in surprise. "Yes, I did," he said. "I was being foolish, thinking I could be a hero, and . . . well, that boy saved my life."

A smile spread across Charon's worn features. "Tell me exactly what happened," he said. "From the beginning."

xxxx

Fakir hissed as he was thrown against the wall of the speeding van. Several crates shook back and forth, threatening to break free of their bindings and fall on him. The gang members who had dragged him into the back of the vehicle did not seem to notice or care. The motion did not appear to bother them, either. They only had attention for Fakir. As the van continued to bounce down the road, they kicked and hit and struck the boy in rapid succession, never once allowing him the chance to get up.

"Anton saw everything," Heimbrecht snarled. He had been the ringleader in the beating. Fakir could imagine what sort of terrible fate awaited him once they stopped.

"How do you know he did?" Fakir managed to get out. "It's not like there's been time for a phone call."

"There was a call, but that's irrelevant. He said he'd be watching. He always is!" Heimbrecht's eyes flashed. "And even if he wasn't, there's not a man in here who'd keep quiet about this if asked."

Fakir pushed himself up on his hands and knees. "So you're all traitors to each other," he said. "Each one of you just cares about himself. The whole group of you is pathetic."

That remark landed him a harsh kick in his ribs. He hissed, falling onto his side as he grabbed for the injured spot.

Heimbrecht bent down, murder in his eyes. "If Anton hadn't made it clear that you're not expendable, you'd be dead right now," he said.

"Does he care if you beat me up so bad everyone will know something's wrong when they see me?" Fakir retorted.

The killer snatched a handful of Fakir's thick hair, digging his fingers in painfully. "No one's going to see you now," he said. "Not unless Anton says so. After we deliver the goods, you're getting out of Munich tonight. Anton doesn't want to take a chance on you being here right now. He's going to take you someplace else and then make sure you use your powers to help us. He won't tolerate another scene like tonight's."

Fakir gritted his teeth against the pain. "You're staying here?" he said. "You're not even going to try to get away from Anton?"

Heimbrecht called him a foul name and struck the side of his head with the butt of the gun. Fakir fell back in pain. Crimson was already trickling down his temple and over his cheek.

"I'd be shot dead the minute I'd try to leave," Heimbrecht said. "Anton would kill anyone here who didn't try to stop me."

"What a rotten life," Fakir said.

"You can lay there and say that. You're going to live after tonight." Heimbrecht stood, pressing his foot unbearably on the side of Fakir's back.

The boy gasped, clawing at the floor. From his current position he still could not try to defend himself. And it was his right side where his sore ribs were. The added pain from the pressure against them was enough to force him to squeeze his eyes shut. He could scarcely stop from crying out. But that was one satisfaction he refused to give his enemy. Instead he gripped at the floor and held on tight.

"Okay, that's enough of that. Don't break anything . . . yet."

Fakir's eyes opened at these words. Two other gang members were dragging Heimbrecht back by the arms. Instantly the pressure eased. Fakir gasped, breathing heavily at the release.

"Anton will decide if he should be beat up any more," the first of the two said. "I say he should have got the point by now. It's enough punishment."

Fakir stiffened, his eyes widening in shock at those words. _Enough punishment?_ After all the threats against Ahiru and Charon, the beating was enough punishment? But . . . what did that mean?

His heart pounded in his ears. Of course, he could not know for sure until Anton saw him, and maybe not even then, but . . . were they not going to kill Ahiru or Charon? Why?

There was only one reason that Fakir could think of. The gang had lost track of them. In that case it would be impossible to kill them . . . at this point, anyway. And since Ahiru's life had just been threatened during the robbery, they must have learned about the stalker's lack of success since then, perhaps through a call from Anton.

Fakir curled his right hand into a fist. If that were so, then he no longer had to fear for Ahiru and Charon's safety quite as much. He could think of ways to fight the gang. Maybe he actually would be able to get out.

The van ground to a halt. Fakir jerked to attention, looking up from where he was still laying on the floor. Had they arrived? Or was there some kind of delay?

The back doors creaked open. Judging from the way Heimbrecht had begun to shake in the grip of his two captors, this was a planned stop. It must be Anton or some other gang members opening the doors.

In spite of himself, Fakir tensed. Heimbrecht had been nothing but cruel and evil towards him and his loved ones. Nevertheless, he did not want to see a man killed in cold blood.

He glanced towards the doorway. A broad form was silhouetted there, with the moonlight glinting off of a shiny object in his hand. At the moment it was cocked over the figure's shoulder. But even as the intruder spoke, in Anton's matter-of-fact, uncaring tones, the weapon was pulled down and forward to be aimed directly at the horrified Heimbrecht.

"You've disappointed me, Heimbrecht. I expected better things of you." The gun clicked.

"Wait!" Heimbrecht cried, his voice strangled. "Spare me! It's the fool you assigned to be the boy's guard that you should kill. He was right next to him and couldn't stop anything!"

"Shifting the blame, Heimbrecht? Not to worry; he will be dealt with shortly. Right now, however, it's your life that's on the line. And I'm afraid your time is up."

"_No!"_ Heimbrecht's scream came at the same time the gun fired. Blood splattered in every direction. Fakir stared in horror, his eyes wide. He could not see exactly where the bullet had entered, but as Heimbrecht sank lifelessly to the floor and was released by the other gangsters, it was clear he was dead.

Anton returned the smoking pistol to his position above his shoulder. "Remove the body," he directed. "Then begin unloading the van. It has to be disposed of before it can be traced to our location."

He leaned further inside, turning his attention to the stunned Fakir. "I hope that was a satisfactory lesson for you, young Fakir," he said. "I'm sure you won't forget it."

Fakir swore, pushing himself to his knees even as he trembled from the effort. "I'm sure I won't, either," he said. "I've never seen a man murdered before."

"Take him in the house," Anton said, only studying his battered appearance for a moment before looking to the gang members. "Leave him to his devices until the van is unloaded. Then we will prepare for the journey to Frankfurt."

It should not be a surprise, Fakir supposed. He had already been told they were leaving Munich. And Frankfurt was another large city where they could hide and plan robberies. But some part of him was still consternated anyway.

"Frankfurt?" he repeated.

"And I trust you will give us a correct display of your skills once there," Anton continued, nonplused as he watched two thugs drag Fakir up under his arms.

_Over my dead body,_ Fakir retorted in his mind.

But outwardly he just gave his nemesis a dark glare.

xxxx

The industrial park had been madness ever since the robbery. The police had arrived, sirens wailing, only minutes after Charon had spoken with the worker Fakir had saved. According to the officer with whom Charon had spoke, a couple of officers had been assigned to the park but had been on its opposite side. Charon was frustrated and unhappy with the amount of attention they had paid to his call. Now they were milling around, taking pictures and jotting down notes and talking with whomever they could find.

Charon had already given his account. Autor and Ahiru were both expected to tell their versions as well—once they could be found. At the moment Charon was wandering through the area, searching in fear and concern for them both.

Ahiru was a very emotional girl. Charon had been certain that an outcry such as tonight's would have come sooner or later if the agony had dragged on. He had to admit that he had not predicted the possibility of her lashing out at Autor, but now that it had happened it did not surprise him.

But he had never seen Autor so broken. It worried him just as much or more than Ahiru's state. Even though Charon had known that Autor concealed so much of his pain, he had not thought he would ever see the boy like this.

He called for them both as he wandered deeper into the maze of buildings. For an agonizingly long time, he heard nothing in reply. But then at last came a sobered answer.

"I'm here."

He followed the sound of Autor's voice around the side of another set of warehouses. He found the boy sitting on an overturned crate, slumped forward with his hair slipping down to help conceal his eyes. His cravat was loose; even the top button of his shirt had been undone. Both were highly unusual, considering Autor's penchant for neatness.

"Are you alright?" Charon asked.

Autor stiffened as though he had been caught in some illegal act. "Yes," he said with impatience. "I'm fine."

They both knew he was not.

Charon came closer, lowering himself onto another crate. Autor glanced to him, then away. "Where's Ahiru?"

"She had better be somewhere in this industrial park." Charon shook his head with a sigh. "It's been a rough day on you both."

"And on you as well." Autor still would not look back at him. His voice was pulled taut, but Charon could hear the quaver in it.

"We're going to get Fakir back." Charon's tone was firm. "We caught up to him once. We can do it again."

Autor's shoulders trembled now. "You don't understand. I've failed again." He clenched a fist. "I've failed Ahiru, Fakir, and you. I vowed to not let myself be outwitted by that gang another time. If only I could have kept Ahiru from leaping out of the car and into the path of the van, maybe then we could have saved Fakir.

"It was horrifying enough to have fallen off that balcony, seeing Fakir trying to save me and hearing Ahiru screaming. The gang got away with Fakir when we went there to get him back. Ahiru realized that our failure had badly shaken me. I'm not sure even I discerned how much until it happened once more tonight."

He shook his head. "All my life I've felt like such a failure," he said bitterly. "I wasn't shrewd enough to understand that those older children—those supposed friends of mine—were making a fool of me until they tossed me away.

"I couldn't Story-Spin, despite all of my research and all of my love of Drosselmeyer's works.

"I told Fakir to be careful of his powers. Yet when I discovered my own at long last, I was overcome with the powerlust that had built in my heart for years.

"I told him not to get over-confident. But after we managed to handle so many strange cases, I started to believe we could win against whatever came at us.

"And now _this_ has happened, dragging me firmly back to reality once more." He sat up straighter. "We can't always win. I've led us to defeat on every leg of this journey."

Charon's eyes narrowed. "That isn't true," he said. "It was your idea to come to Munich. Because of you, we've found Fakir."

"And lost him again. They might not even stay in Munich. They're probably already gone."

"We don't know that." Charon's voice took on a gruff tone. "We're going to keep looking. I won't give up until Fakir is back with us."

Autor clenched a fist. "Don't get me wrong," he said. "I'm not giving up. I . . . I just . . ." Again his voice shook, more prominently this time. "I don't know what to do any more. I don't know how to be strong."

Suddenly Charon realized why Autor had refused to meet his gaze. The boy was crying.

He moved closer, laying a large and callused hand on Autor's shoulder. Autor froze, but did not try to shrug away. He respected Charon, but more than that, he needed and wanted this right now.

"No one can be strong all of the time," Charon said. "Not me, not Fakir . . . not you."

Autor choked on a sob. "I'm tired of letting everyone down," he said. "When I saw Ahiru's eyes after we lost track of Fakir in the bedlam, my heart shattered. I know she blamed me, since I was holding her back from running after him. She as much as said that she blamed me. She asked what kind of friend I was."

"You saved her life," Charon interjected. "You're the greatest friend she or Fakir could have. Ahiru knows that. She loves you; she spoke out of heartbreak and anguish."

Autor trembled. "But . . . I can't see her look like that again. I can't stand thinking about how Fakir looked when I fell. I can't . . ."

There were times when Charon was at a total loss with parenting. More times than he liked to remember, he had made foolish mistakes. Those occasions were sometimes enough to make him want to quit.

Yet in the midst of it all there were other times, glorious times when he did something right. Those incidents dulled the memories of all the mistakes, at least for a while.

This time he was certain he knew what needed to be done.

He stood, walking around to be in front of Autor. Slowly he reached out, pulling the despairing boy into a firm, warm embrace.

Again Autor froze, both stunned and unsure what to make of this. But then he clutched at Charon in desperation.

In the morning he would more than likely be embarrassed by his display. He would probably request that Charon never tell Ahiru or Fakir—not that Charon ever would think of it anyway. He would want to don his perfectly calm, unruffled façade and be his usual aloof self.

Tonight, however, he was a lost and frightened boy in urgent need of some parental comfort.

And to Charon, by now Autor was practically his son anyway.


	14. Fight Back

**Chapter Fourteen**

Ahiru was running, not caring where or how far, just as long as she kept going. The buildings of the industrial park flew past her line of vision. Her thoughts were an anguished, furious whirl to keep pace with her feet.

Fakir had been right there! She had seen him getting up and he had been wiping blood from his mouth. He was hurt! He was hurt and she had wanted to go to him, to make sure he was okay, to get him away from the terrible gang.

But it had all been in vain. Now he was gone again, taken by those horrible people, and who knew when they would find him another time. Who knew how badly he would be _hurt_ another time!

She blinked back the tears, but they kept coming. He had been so close, so _close._

And Autor. . . .

She slowed to a walk and then an outright halt. Autor had said she had not seen the van and it had been moving right towards her. If that were true, then it probably really would not have stopped for her, not when it had been full of so many terrible guys. What was one more body to add to the count they probably already had?

Autor had saved her life. And how had she repaid him? By screaming at him and asking what kind of friend he was. She flinched, her eyes widening in dismay. The way Autor had looked then would never stop haunting her.

It was her own fault that they had not been able to save Fakir. She had been stupid and thoughtless and had run right into the path of the van. If she had not done that, maybe Fakir would be with them right now.

Why did she have to keep being rescued on this case? It was because she had been held at gunpoint that Fakir had gone with the gang in the first place. And then the gang had done the same thing to force Fakir and Autor into that fateful fight. And now they could have got Fakir back, but she had ruined it by not paying attention to where she was going.

She looked back in the direction she had come from. There was no sign of Autor.

She had to find him. She had to tell him how sorry she was, even though it would never be enough. How could anything really be enough? She had said the most horrible thing possible to the one least deserving of all.

She turned, trudging back up the street. She looked from the left to the right and straight ahead as she went, both not wanting to get into any more near-accidents and hoping to see Autor somewhere.

It was some time before she heard the faint sound of voices on the air. She blinked, pausing to listen. She recognized them both, she was sure of it. It was Autor and Charon! She ran again, her braid thumping against her back.

The braid Autor had fixed for her earlier that day. She had been distressed over her dream and he had calmed her. It was strange, how the boys she was involved with could alternately frustrate her to no end and soothe her mind.

She slowed and then stopped when she drew close enough to overhear Autor and Charon's conversation. They sounded so serious; she did not want to barge in on them. So instead she lingered, listening to what was being said without really meaning to eavesdrop. But what Autor was telling Charon was heartbreaking and stunning.

Disbelieving tears filled her eyes. She had snapped at Autor out of stress and despair. But even though she had realized that he had saved her life, she had stayed angry that he had not let her run into the fray after Fakir. Back then, she had known somewhere in her heart that he was upset and hurt, but she had never imagined it could be to this extent. Even after she had calmed down and saw things more clearly, she had not fully comprehended the truth she was witnessing now.

She had absolutely crushed him. And still he was putting the blame on himself. He was not angry with her at all. All she wanted was to run to him and tell him she was sorry and try to comfort him.

But maybe that was something that needed to wait. Charon seemed to be doing a good job right now. She did not want to go in at the wrong time and disrupt it.

"I'm sorry, Autor," she whispered as she turned away to stay outside hearing range of the conversation. "I'm horrible. I'm so horrible!"

She waited in the shadows until she saw them coming at last. Autor had tried to pull himself together, but his eyes still looked red. Charon walked alongside him, somber and silent. When they saw Ahiru standing there, both looked surprised. Autor seemed to tense.

Before either could speak Ahiru ran forward to Autor. "Autor, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice cracking. "I should never have snapped at you and stayed mad at you. I know you were just trying to protect me."

"Not only you," Autor said quietly, "but Fakir. Heaven knows what would have happened if he had seen the van strike you down."

"You saved my life," Ahiru choked out. "I'm just awful! I couldn't feel closer to you if we were really related, but I treated you like you don't mean anything to me. And you still feel bad about the argument with Fakir and then I had to go get mad too. I don't even deserve to be forgiven!"

"There's nothing to forgive," Autor returned. He sounded tired and sad. "This misadventure is taking its toll on all of us. You were hurting. And . . . I suppose Fakir was as well, when he lost his temper with me."

"We both hurt you," Ahiru sniffled. "I never wanted to hurt you. I'm sure he didn't, either."

"I guess not. But it's alright."

Ahiru stared at him. "I was so mean and you're just letting it go like that?" she exclaimed.

"I don't even blame you, Ahiru," Autor said. "I blame myself for not preventing you from getting out of the car in the first place. Of course your only thought would be to get to Fakir. You were blind to all else. If I had been able to help you save him before, none of this would have happened."

"Oh Autor!" Ahiru's heart broke. "Charon's been right all along; we didn't really know what we were getting into. We couldn't have gone against the gang then. And I shouldn't have gotten out of the car tonight. I should have waited a few more minutes and we all could have got out."

"It still would have been too late," Charon interjected. "They were acting too fast. We could not have saved Fakir tonight, even if this hadn't happened."

Ahiru looked to him, biting her lip. Maybe that was true. Maybe she would be able to believe it sometime. Right now she was still berating herself. And she doubted she would ever forgive herself for what she had yelled at Autor.

"And you were hit by those horses back home," she remembered, turning back to Autor. "When you jumped out to save me, you could have been hit by the van." She trembled. "I didn't even think about that until just now."

Autor looked at her in surprise. "I don't think I did either," he admitted. "When I saw you in danger, I didn't take time to think. I just grabbed you."

Ahiru sadly nodded. "Autor . . ." She hesitated. "I saw you with Charon before you came out."

Autor stared at her. "What?" he gasped.

She looked down, guilt in her eyes. "I saw you crying. I didn't mean to, but I saw it."

Autor stiffened. "It was just a short lapse of control," he said. "I didn't want you to see it or even know about it."

"Yeah, I know." Ahiru looked at him again. "I didn't even know if anything could make you cry. I really didn't know it would be me!"

"Ahiru, it wasn't you," Autor said. "I suppose it's been building for some time now. Finally it just came out."

"After I acted awful. I was the last straw!" Ahiru exclaimed.

Autor found he could not deny that. But the last thing he wanted was to make Ahiru feel even worse than she did right now. He averted his gaze.

"If our positions had been reversed, I would have been angry also," he said. "You were right about what you said before, Ahiru—about words said in anger not always being meant."

"Then you know I didn't mean it?" Ahiru's voice was plaintive.

Now Autor hesitated. In his own despair and anguish, he had believed she had meant it. But now that he had calmed himself and could see more clearly, he did not see how she really could have.

Ahiru stepped forward in desperation, taking Autor's silence to mean the worst. "You're my brother, Autor!" she wailed. "I couldn't mean it. I couldn't!"

Autor started out of his reverie. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I know you couldn't have meant it. You . . . you've always told me I've been a good friend. And we've come through too much together to throw it aside because of this." He shook his head. "If I had been thinking of it after Fakir lost his temper with me, that's what I should have said to him."

"I . . . I guess . . . it's hard to think about things when you're feeling really hurt," Ahiru said. "Fakir was hurt, and you were hurt, and I was hurt tonight, and then you were hurt again. . . ."

She shuddered. "Fakir told me the reason he got so mad was because he couldn't understand why you knew about the jewelry store thing and he didn't. He wondered if he'd done something wrong so I didn't want to tell him. If I'd told him in the first place instead of trying to make it a surprise . . . !" She trailed off.

"_Ifs_ aren't going to change what is," Autor said. "Although I've certainly been thinking of my share of them lately."

He sighed. "Ahiru, let's put this behind us," he said. "Apologies have been made and we should move on. We have to focus on finding Fakir. And keeping up our strength so we can do it."

Ahiru gave a sad nod. "You're right, Autor." She tried to smile. "I'm glad you still want to be friends."

"I'm glad you feel the same," Autor said. "During the time I . . ." He cleared his throat. ". . . I was having the breakdown, I wasn't sure that you would ever forgive me for tackling you away from Fakir."

"The van would've made sure I never got to him." Ahiru smiled more. "You've made sure that one day, I will."

Autor finally smiled as well.

"So . . . what do we do now?" Ahiru wondered.

Autor drew a shuddering breath. "We start again," he said. "That's all we can do."

Ahiru took his hand in hers. "And we'll find Fakir and get him back," she said. "We have to."

The traces of a smile came back over Autor's features. "I pray we will," he said.

"I'm sure it'll be answered Yes!" Ahiru said.

Watching them, Charon smiled too. Everything would be alright between them. And now that they had repaired their friendship, they both looked visibly happier.

He laid his hands on their shoulders. "Let's go," he said. "Tomorrow we'll start looking again."

They looked up at him.

"Why not tonight?" Ahiru asked.

Charon sighed. "The police need to get statements from both of you about what happened," he said, clearly hating to put this burden on them. "They need the information as soon as possible."

"I expected as much," Autor said. "What's their view on the case so far?"

"They're treating Fakir as a kidnap victim, as well they should," Charon said. "He didn't help with the robbery and was apparently under the watch of an armed thug."

A relieved smile spread over Ahiru's features. "He didn't help?" she exclaimed.

Charon shook his head. "They probably wanted him on hand in case something went wrong," he said. "But when something did go wrong he defied them." He smiled as he began to guide them towards the car. "He saved a man's life."

"I'm so glad!" Ahiru declared. But then she stopped, worried.

"When I saw him, he looked like he was bleeding," she said. "Does anyone know if he was hurt bad?"

Charon's jaw set. "They don't know," he said.

He was afraid Fakir would be hurt badly, if he had not been already. Ambrosius had confided in Charon that when he had not wanted to go through with Story-Spinning for the robberies, he had been beaten, sometimes severely. But that was not something Charon wanted to tell the teens now, especially when they were both still smarting over not being able to get Fakir back tonight.

Autor looked at Charon. From his tone and expression, there was more than what was being said. And Autor could read between the lines. He swallowed hard, wanting to ask and yet not wanting to. Perhaps if he decided to, he should wait until Ahiru was not there.

"Let's give our statements then," he said instead. "Maybe it will help find Fakir sooner."

Ahiru nodded. "Yeah!" she said. "We have to do everything we can, even if it doesn't seem like a whole lot," she added, quieter.

But before they could start walking again, someone cut in front of them. The trio looked up with a start at the footfall.

"It looks like my hunch proved right; Munich _was_ the correct place to come."

Ahiru stared in shock. "Detective Kirsch!" she squealed.

xxxx

Fakir sat slumped against a wall in the bare but carpeted room, clutching his right side. His ribs were still sore from the fight, but since he had not heard any sickening sounds he had to trust that they were not cracked or broken. The gang certainly did not intend to get any medical help for him, at least not at this point.

It felt eerily wrong, to be sitting in the house of a man Anton had just murdered. But Anton had insisted it was the most logical hideout to come to for now. It was the closest, the largest, and no one had any reason to connect Heimbrecht with the crime. They would not be given the chance, either; several gang members were wiping the van down to get rid of all traces of blood. And Heimbrecht himself, Anton had said, would simply take a long sabbatical from which he would never return. Gretel had already recorded the information in the company computers. The body would be disposed of in a way to avoid identification. Fakir would be perfectly content to not know the details of that.

His mind was racing. They had lost track of Ahiru and Charon. He was still sure of that. Anton had not threatened him with any more time-stamped pictures. Surely that meant there were not any more to be had. Maybe Anton did not want to deal with Fakir asking about their existence or even demanding to see them if he tried to bluff and say there were some.

But on the other hand, Anton seemed to know that Fakir was not an idiot. He would suspect something was up if there were no further threats made against his loved ones. Maybe, Fakir thought, he should try to say something about it just to see what Anton would say.

If Ahiru and Charon really had disappeared, that meant Fakir would be fighting against the gang with everything he had. He would not have to be a criminal.

Although . . . when it came right down to it, could he have done it at all? Or would he have still looked for a loophole? He had not known that the gang likely no longer knew where Ahiru and Charon were when he had tried to protect that guy.

_I'm just not cut out for this_, he knew._ I don't want any innocent person to get hurt, whether I know them or not._

The police would know about the robbery now. Hopefully they were trying to find him. But even if they located this place they would come to a dead-end, unless possibly Fakir could leave a clue as to his future whereabouts.

Could he do that? And if so, would the gang really not discover it?

He would probably have to leave it in this room. There was no telling whether he would get another chance to be alone. And the only thing he had that might possibly work was his belt buckle, if he could use it to scratch something small and out-of-the-way into the wall. It should probably also be near the bottom. He would just have to hope that the police would be as thorough as they should be, if they found this place.

He undid his belt and pulled it out of the loops. He would have to work quickly. Who could tell when they might come back for him. Tightly grasping the hook, he turned his attention to the wall. Just above the woodwork he dug the tip into the paint and fought to carve a letter, then a word, and another.

_Fakir_

_Frankfurt_

That should be clear enough, he determined. He had written it as tiny as possible, but still big enough that he hoped an ally could notice it. He slid his belt back through the loops and fastened it in place. If his luck could hold out, his enemies would not be the ones to see it.

Would they be more likely to see it if he was in front of it and was pulled away or if he was far away from it to begin with? He frowned, mulling over the options. Then he slid over, hiding the writing with his back. They would probably be too occupied with hauling him up and dragging him off again to bother looking at the wall at all.

He would not stop with this, either. He would look for other opportunities to leave clues. Maybe eventually he would even be able to find a way to contact the police. And he would keep fighting until the gang was defeated.

He froze at the sound of the door opening. They were coming back. A prayer ran through his mind that they would not notice the carving behind him. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the widening doorway space.

Two gang members he was not very familiar with stepped inside the room. "Okay," one of them growled. "You're on your way to Frankfurt tonight. You'd better not give us any trouble."

"Whatever," Fakir shot back.

They walked over, grabbing hold of Fakir's arms and dragging him to his feet. He went with as much care as he could, trying to steady himself and not jar his side too badly. But in spite of his best efforts he wound up gritting his teeth in pain.

"You're still talking tough, eh?" one of the creeps said. "I thought maybe we pounded that out of you."

"It's not that easy to bring me down," Fakir retorted.

"Maybe not, but you'd better watch what you say and do," the second thug said. "If you deliberately mess up again, even Anton's not going to be so willing to give you another chance."

"Threaten me all you want," Fakir said. "Does it make you feel good?"

The first gangster lashed out, suddenly getting him in a chokehold. "Listen up," he snarled. "Anton's already killed Heimbrecht. We're expendable too. And we're not going to let you seal our deaths the way you sealed his."

Fakir clenched his teeth. "You are not going to blame his death on me," he hissed. He fought to pull his arms free in order to reach up and pull the gangster's arm away from his throat, but in vain. The man's other arm was firmly restraining Fakir's right arm, while his comrade continued to hold onto Fakir's left arm.

"Maybe you didn't outright kill him the way you killed your friend, but you're responsible all the same," the criminal said.

Fakir's heart beat faster. Autor was dead because of him. He knew that. He would never be able to forget it, nor to forgive himself. And the gang had no intention of letting him forget it, either. That had long been obvious. But it did not make the reminders any less painful.

At last the chokehold was released. "That got to you," the man noted. "Any mention of _him_ rattles you to no end."

Was that really how he looked? He could not keep giving them what they wanted like that. But . . . how could he not be rattled? How could he not look it? He had never been so horrified and sickened before. He had _killed _someone. His own cousin, no less! He tried to make himself not think about it unless he had moments to himself where his thoughts wandered, but that did not always work—especially if the gang purposely brought it up.

"Nevermind," Fakir growled. "We're wasting time. You wanted to go, so let's go." He moved to walk forward, but the thugs held him back.

"Just remember this little discussion," the first one warned.

"Don't worry," Fakir shot back. "There's no way I won't."

"It'd better mean something to you, then," said the second. "Because we mean business."

With that they started walking, pulling Fakir with them to the door. Neither of them glanced back even once. When they were into the hall, one of them reached and clicked off the light.

_So far, so good,_ Fakir thought.

And still no one had mentioned his loved ones. He was not sure what to make of it. Should he just ignore it? If he asked about the sudden lack of interest in Ahiru and Charon, the gang might decide to pretend to know where they were to further manipulate and torment him. But if he said nothing, they might start to wonder why he hadn't and if he could be planning something.

Anton would be smart enough to wonder, anyway. Fakir was sure of that. And he could not risk his fledgling plans for defiance.

"So exactly why should I be afraid of you?" Fakir said as they went down the hall. "If you end up dying because Anton's trigger-happy, you can't bother me."

"The rest of the gang would do that," said the first.

"And I might die. Is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah," said the second.

Fakir looked directly at him. "And the rest of my loved ones. Will they die too?"

The man was instantly uncomfortable. His gaze shifted from side to side, even as he increased his pace and forced Fakir to do the same. "Yeah," he said again.

His reaction confirmed what Fakir had already come to suspect. Ahiru and Charon had gone somewhere away from the gang's knowledge. Somehow they had outsmarted their stalker. Maybe they had even gotten him arrested.

Fakir fell silent as they continued their journey to the French doors at the back of the house. Beyond them were a sprawling backyard and even a helicopter pad.

"We're going to a private airfield Anton owns," the first thug said. "Then we'll take a personal jet of his to Frankfurt."

"He really has everything, doesn't he," Fakir said.

"Pretty much," was the sneering reply.

"Is he planning to come with us this time?" Fakir wondered.

"He's going to fly us there," the man smirked.

Anton was already waiting by the helicopter when they stepped outside. "Well, young Fakir, I trust you've had time to think things over," he commented as they drew near to the helicopter pad.

"I guess that depends on what you mean by that," Fakir shot back.

"As long as you've decided your conduct was foolish and won't be repeated, I don't care what else you thought about," Anton said. The way he kept his voice so calm was more eerie than if he ever raised it.

Fakir glowered at him. "I thought about my conduct," he said. "And yours, too."

"You don't approve of how I handled the situation?" Anton said mildly. He gestured for the thugs to lift Fakir into the aircraft since, due to his injuries, he would have a difficult time managing on his own.

"I guess it could have been worse," Fakir called over his shoulder as he reached for the sides of the doorway, "but no, I wasn't that thrilled."

"Then it's a good thing your opinion doesn't matter."

Fakir could hear Anton's voice as the men kept hold of him around his waist, easing him into the machine. Then he was violently released, nearly being pushed to the floor. He stumbled forward, grabbing onto a nearby seat. The thugs sneered at him.

"Strap yourself in," Anton directed now, hoisting himself up as well. "We wouldn't want you to be thrown about on the ride."

Fakir sank into the seat he was already standing by. "No," he growled, pulling the safety belt over his lap, "we wouldn't."

It was not long before Anton had them airborne. Fakir looked out the nearest window, watching as Heimbrecht's property grew smaller and less detailed in his line of vision.

He had to hope the police would start investigating Heimbrecht's mysterious disappearance soon. Either that or find out that Heimbrecht was in Anton's gang. Anything to prompt them to search the house.

And he had to hope that Heimbrecht's servants would not find his message first and take pains to get rid of it.

Although, coming to think of it, would the servants even know about Heimbrecht's involvement in the gang? He had not seen any either time he had been there. And just suppose they did not know. Then they could be possible allies. Surely they would try to look more deeply into the matter if they found the strange carving in the bare room.

Fakir clung to this newfound thought as the helicopter left Heimbrecht's neighborhood.

xxxx

Autor sighed to himself. He and Ahiru and Charon were all absolutely worn-out.

By the time they had exchanged explanations with Kirsch and delivered statements to the police, it had gotten very late. None of them had gotten enough sleep earlier. Now Ahiru looked asleep on her feet. Charon looked as though he would like to carry her to the car but was too exhausted himself.

At least now Charon and Ahiru were both convinced that Kirsch was on their side. Apparently he had ensured that reports of Fakir's abduction had gone out to all the large cities. Autor supposed it would be easy enough to check his story. He was still cautious, but he wanted to believe that they had a friend on the police force. And he wanted to believe that Charon knew his friend well enough to know that he really was a friend.

He sank onto the edge of the backseat of their rental car, keeping his legs in the open doorway while listening to the nearby discussion of the case. Siegfried von Schroeder had been called about the robbery. He was there now, talking with the officers and the worker whom Fakir had saved.

"I met Mr. Charon this afternoon when I was waiting to have lunch with Mr. Schuhmacher. We have been discussing a business deal of late. Mr. Schuhmacher had not arrived, so I spoke with Mr. Charon about his missing son. Mr. Charon concluded from the story my brother and I told that the gang might perhaps try to rob a warehouse here."

"Did you believe him?" one of the officers asked.

"I thought it was a possibility, at least. I increased the strength of the security, as Mr. Charon suggested," Siegfried said, "but I wasn't expecting trouble. I don't know this gang. I have been under the impression that they attack people who supposedly owe them money or favors. To my knowledge, I don't owe them anything."

One of the policemen wrote the information on a small notepad. "Could anyone in your company be involved with the gang?"

"I would hope not!" Siegfried exclaimed. "Background checks are performed on all of the Schroeder Corporation's employees when they apply. We don't hire anyone who appears suspicious."

"It could be someone without a criminal record," the policeman said. "Would you be able to provide us with a list of all of your employees?"

"Of course," Siegfried answered. "I will cooperate with this investigation in whatever way I can."

Autor removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. If only something could come of this angle. If there was a criminal in von Schroeder's company, and the police could learn of it, maybe it would help lead them to Fakir.

Right now they were at a brick wall. Not that they had not been in such a predicament before hearing about the gang hanging around the industrial park. But it was worse to be stranded without any leads after having had one.

_Oh Fakir . . . if only you could have seen us, to have known that we're alright . . . to have known that I'm alive._

There was an all-points bulletin on the van and its license number. More than likely, it would turn up abandoned somewhere, without the gang anywhere in the vicinity. Or maybe they would see to it that it was destroyed somehow.

And Fakir. What would become of Fakir? He had defied the gang. Would he be badly hurt? Autor had asked Charon about that while Ahiru had been giving her statement to the police. Charon had very soberly told him what Ambrosius had said about the beatings.

Autor clenched a fist. It was nothing he had not expected, and nothing Fakir could not handle, but that did not mean it was something he wanted to think about.

And what if Fakir continued to defy them? They would likely decide it was not even worth trying to deal with him. Then what? Would they try to kill him, as Kirsch had said back in Kinkan?

Autor whispered a prayer for Fakir's safety under his breath, as well as a prayer that they or the police or someone else kind would find him. Time was of the essence, now more than ever.

"Autor?"

He looked up at Ahiru's mumbling voice. She had come to the car with her eyes drooping shut and her legs ready to stop supporting her. He frowned in concern.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I wanna sleep now." The defeat and exhaustion were both prevalent in her voice. It rent his heart to hear them, especially the former.

He stood to allow her entrance to the car. "You should sleep," he said. "Get in."

Gratefully Ahiru climbed into the vehicle and promptly snuggled against the plush seat. "Do you think Charon will be ready to go soon?" she wondered, rubbing her cheek over the softness of the backrest.

"I hope so," Autor said. He got back in the car, this time swinging his legs inside and shutting the door to block the conversation outside. "Surely there isn't much more he can tell them by now."

"Mmm. . . ." Ahiru fell silent. Autor glanced at her, studying her quiet form. Was she asleep?

But then he frowned. There were clear drops sliding down her face. He moved closer, concerned.

"Ahiru?" he spoke. "Are you alright?"

Ahiru drew in her breath sharply and hiccupped. "I'm sorry, Autor," she whispered. "I shouldn't let you see me cry, especially after I was so mean to you. . . . I'm just so worried about Fakir! I feel terrible about how everything's gone tonight." She trembled. "I really got myself hoping that we could bring Fakir home. And I know Charon said we couldn't have, but I keep feeling like we could have if I hadn't ruined everything."

Autor reached to gently brush the tears away. "I suppose there's no way to really know," he said. "I blame myself for both our previous failure and this one, but perhaps neither of us have been at fault at all."

"I hope someday we won't feel like we have to keep blaming ourselves," Ahiru said. "Maybe when Fakir is back with us. . . ."

"Perhaps," Autor consented. "But for now, go to sleep," he said. "You've been up for hours. You surely can't be thinking entirely clear by now."

"Yeah. . . ." Ahiru snuggled against the backrest and closed her eyes once more. This time she did go to sleep.

Autor studied her a moment before reaching into the front passenger seat for the fleece throw Ahiru had brought on the trip. He spread it open, draping it over her like a blanket. She burrowed under it, mumbling something incoherent.

Amused, he relaxed against his side of the backrest. Tomorrow they would re-focus on finding Fakir. Tonight they needed to sleep, and to try to ensure it would be peaceful.

He leaned further into the plush backing, closing his eyes.

It was a few minutes later when Ahiru sleepily opened her eyes and focused on Autor's slumbering form. Still not fully awake, she fumbled with the throw until she had part of it over him. Then, smiling, she dozed once more.


	15. Cruel Lies

**Chapter Fifteen**

It was some time later when Charon at last returned to the car, exhausted and strangely mixed with both discouragement and hope. The police had asked so many questions and then had re-asked some of them. He could only pray that it would bring Fakir back to them faster.

By now, on his second night without sleep, he was ready to drop. He opened the driver's door, chancing to look in the back to see if the kids were there. He hoped they were; at the moment he did not know if he could force himself to go look for them without resting first.

As he took in the peaceful scene, a smile crossed his features. Both Autor and Ahiru were slumbering under the warm throw. At the moment, neither of them looked as though anything was wrong. And as soon as he got them back to the hotel, he was going to take their lead and see that he got some sleep. Somehow he doubted that he would have difficulty with it this time.

"Charon."

He straightened and looked up with a start at Kirsch's voice. The policeman was coming over to him, weaving his way around patrol cars.

"Are you leaving now?"

Charon nodded. "The kids have had enough of this," he said. "And right now, so have I. It doesn't look like we can do anything more here."

Kirsch nodded as well. "The state police are taking all the information they've been given and will be going over it probably all night," he said.

"Do they have any ideas at all?" Charon asked.

Kirsch paused. "The security cameras at the warehouse were all disabled," he said. "That could mean one of two things. Either someone in the gang knows enough about electronics in general to do that . . . or they know about von Schroeder's electronics in specific."

"Which would indicate there was someone in von Schroeder's employ involved," Charon surmised. _Or that Fakir disabled them with his writing._ But Charon did not want to think about that.

"Yes." Kirsch glanced around, then lowered his voice. "I asked von Schroeder to give me a copy of his employee list. I know this case is in the jurisdiction of the state police, but considering that Fakir is from the town of my jurisdiction, I want to do some investigating of my own, even though it can't be official."

Charon's eyebrows rose. "Even in town, you don't have authority over a serious case like this," he said.

"I know," Kirsch frowned. "That's why it can't be official. But I want to know I've done my part." He looked Charon in the eyes. "Fakir is a good boy. I want to help you ensure that nothing happens to him."

"Then I take it you won't be trying to convince me to take the kids back home and wait there," Charon said.

"No." Kirsch shook his head. "I don't think they should be involved, but they're safer with you then back home."

Charon gave a weary nod. "I've tried to discourage them from being involved in the search, but it's not possible." He looked to them through the window. "They're every bit as determined to find Fakir as I am. It's their search too." He sighed. "They, and Fakir, have already been through so much. And none of them are older than fifteen."

"It's tragic," Kirsch frowned.

Charon hesitated. "Some of it is, yes," he consented. "But they've all matured a great deal. And if it wasn't for them, we would still be stranded in Drosselmeyer's bubble."

"It's strange to think about." Kirsch pushed up his hat. "Even now that all of my memories have been restored, I have a hard time comprehending that we were the players in that man's twisted Story." He glanced to Autor and Ahiru's slumbering forms. "The entire town owes these two and Fakir so much."

Charon nodded in full agreement. "That reminds me," he said. "Do you know how widespread the knowledge of Story-Spinners is outside of Kinkan?"

Kirsch regarded him in surprise. "Not really," he said. "If I had to guess, I would say not by much. If I was going to be a pessimist, I would say that the main ones who know about and believe in Story-Spinners are probably those who shouldn't know at all."

"And I would agree with you," Charon said in all weariness.

"In any case, I don't think we should mention that angle to the state police," Kirsch said. "At least not yet. It's enough for them to know that Fakir's father was in the gang and they've abducted Fakir in Ambrosius's place."

"And since Fakir will hopefully not be helping with any of the robberies, we shouldn't need to feel that the police should be warned about the Story-Spinning power," Charon said.

"Especially when they likely wouldn't believe us." Kirsch moved to step away. "I should let you go," he said. "We can talk more about this tomorrow."

Charon nodded. "Have you found a place to stay yet?" he queried.

"I haven't," Kirsch said. "I was going to ask for the address of the place you and the kids are at."

"If you're leaving now, you can follow me and I'll take you there," Charon said.

"Thank you," Kirsch said in relief. "I was afraid I'd have to drive all over the city looking for a decently-priced inn."

"This one might be slightly higher than you'll want to go," Charon said. He told the other man of the hotel's rates.

Kirsch's eyebrows knitted. "Is it worth the price?"

"I would say so," Charon said.

"Then I'll give it a try," Kirsch said. "It's possible none of us will be in Munich long anyway."

"I wondered if the gang would be moving on," Charon said. He clenched a fist. "Or if instead they'll make Fakir write that no one will recognize them."

"They might do both." Kirsch's tone was grim. "I wouldn't put anything past them."

"Nor would I." Charon moved to get into the car. "Thank you again for everything you've done to help. It means a great deal to me, as well as to Autor and Ahiru."

"I'll keep doing whatever I can," Kirsch said. "I think someone in the state police wanted to prevent the investigation. With this robbery, they shouldn't have any luck with that now. The state police are determined to solve this."

"We can hope." Charon climbed into the car and started to pull the door shut.

Kirsch shut it the rest of the way for him, giving a nod as he walked to his own car.

Charon sighed. He felt guilty for ever even considering that Kirsch was their possible spy. The stress and uncertainty were doing strange and unwelcome things to all of their minds. He had always known that Kirsch was a man of integrity. He never should have let himself think otherwise.

He dug into his pocket for the car keys, glancing to Ahiru and Autor in the backseat as he searched. They were both still sleeping. Neither of them stirred when he found the keyring and inserted the proper key into the ignition.

This day had taken a harsh toll on all of them, and likely on Fakir. Charon could only pray that the coming day would be better.

xxxx

There were some things about this mess that did not add up.

Fakir frowned to himself as he stared out the window of the helicopter, looking at yet not really seeing the dark trees and buildings.

When they had arrived in Munich, Fakir had been made to write that no one thought anything of them as they had departed von Schroeder's company building. Why was it that after the robbery, Anton did not simply put a gun to Fakir's head and force him to write something similar so that they could continue their crime spree in this city?

Did he really want to go to Frankfurt now? Had his plan been all along to commit one robbery per city? And if so, why? Was it just an odd quirk of his? Or did he have some other, more sinister motive?

Fakir did have the feeling that Anton was keeping a lot of things secret. The man was a complete mystery, and an unwelcome one at that. His cool, collected tones and ice-cold eyes made Fakir both wary and angry. Fakir actually thought he would be less disturbed if Anton grew visibly angry instead of staying unbelievably calm after even the most aggravating setback. The fact that Anton remained so in control made Fakir wonder what would happen if he ever did become outwardly infuriated. After all, it was always the quiet ones.

The helicopter was lowering now. Fakir started back to the present, observing the airfield as they descended towards it. There was only one hangar and one visible jet airplane, as well as the helicopter pad and the runway. But apparently that was enough.

It was too bad Anton owned the place. There would not be much hope of being able to leave a clue even if Fakir had the chance to drop one. The police had no idea about this location, he was sure. And everyone who worked here was probably as crooked as the gang.

"Don't try any funny stuff," growled one of the two men who were still guarding him. "We get out, cross the runway, and go into the airplane."

_And then we recite the alphabet,_ Fakir added sarcastically to himself. They seemed to feel that now Fakir was unaware of the simplest instructions. Or more likely, that he was unwilling to follow the simplest instructions. Which was true, but for now it looked like he did not have a choice again.

It would be nice if he could figure out how to get the entire gang running out of the helicopter, giving him access to the radio to call for help. Of course, he could very easily Story-Spin a distraction . . . if he could write one sentence without them watching. There would have to be a distraction in order for him to have time to write a distraction. Right now, it looked hopeless.

The helicopter landed, the large propellers on top slowing and then stopping as the motor was cut. The two men hauled Fakir to his feet.

"Anton goes first," said the second. "Then we can get off."

"Great," Fakir grunted.

Anton stepped out of the cockpit and jumped to the ground. Then, calmly, he looked up at the gang members.

"Now it's your turn," he said, looking to Fakir. "Be careful; you don't want to trip."

Fakir's stomach tied in knots. It had been an alright ascent without problems, but now upon getting out, maybe the crooks would not be as concerned with him. He could picture them taking a sharp jump to the ground with him in tow, and even though it was not far to fall, it could still jar his ribs on impact.

They seemed to have that in mind. Still gripping Fakir's arms painfully, they leaped out with one accord. Fakir clenched his teeth and bent his knees, bracing himself for hitting the ground.

Even with his legs bent to absorb the blow, the pain shot into his side the moment they landed. He gasped, nearly losing his balance. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the creeps sneering.

"Good work," the man praised.

Fakir glowered.

Anton looked satisfied. He turned, heading towards the jet. "You're lucky that there are stairs going into the airplane, young Fakir," he said. "Of course if there weren't, maybe you could Spin yourself a pair of wings and fly up."

"It doesn't work that way," Fakir muttered. "And if I could do anything, I'd Spin myself out of this mess altogether."

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to straighten before the thugs could attempt to make him do so. They prodded him along almost instantly, heading towards the jet.

"Too bad you'll never get free," smirked the first.

Anton, overhearing the conversation, nodded. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten everything that's at stake," he said.

"No, but I've been wondering if you have," Fakir said, unable to stop himself now that Anton was broaching the subject. "What about this sniper who's been supposedly following my loved ones? I haven't heard anything about him or what's happening to them, even after all the threats you made against them."

"Don't trick yourself into a false sense of security, Fakir," Anton replied smoothly and without skipping a beat. "I wanted to see if _you_ remembered, and how you would behave if so. If you believed they were no longer in danger, you might try to leave in spite of the threats against your own life."

The color drained from Fakir's face. Was Anton telling the truth? Had he walked right into another of the mob boss's cruel traps? Maybe that was the reason for the gangster's reluctance to talk about Fakir's loved ones a few minutes ago—Fakir had simply asked too soon and the crook did not know what to say without Anton there.

What if Ahiru or Charon were dead right now? What if Fakir just had not been told in order to see if he would get bolder, like Anton had said?

And he had already left that message etched into the wall. . . .

"Where are they now?" he rasped.

"The girl has been captured," Anton said. "She's still alive, but is being tortured as we speak."

Fakir's heart pounded in his ears. Immediately he looked to the men holding onto him. Both seemed unmoved. This information was not a surprise to them.

"Charon wouldn't let them take her without a fight," he said, turning back to Anton.

"Indeed he did not." Anton regarded Fakir with a calm look of steel. "He was shot four times at point-blank range. It's amazing he's still alive. But don't expect it to last."

Fire flashed and burned in Fakir's eyes. He lunged forward, his rage overcoming his senses. But he got no further than several inches. The two thugs threw him to the ground before he had a chance to try to tear away from them. Then they were pressing him hard into the concrete.

Anton watched it all, his eyes flickering almost imperceptibly. "Never underestimate us, Fakir," he said. He reached into his jacket pocket, removing his revolver. It clicked as he pointed it at Fakir's head. "Get up."

Still shaking, Fakir began to push himself to his hands and knees. The pain in his ribs, which he had forgotten about in his fury, now screamed for his attention. His guards, unconcerned, hauled him the rest of the way to his feet.

"Now," Anton said, "I believe it's time to go." He turned, walking up the steps to the airplane's doorway without another word.

Fakir felt physically sick. When the sentries forced him to walk forward, his legs were like jelly. If this was true, then he had failed in the most horrible way he possibly could have. Charon was at death's door and Ahiru was being tortured. He had saved the life of a complete stranger and had forfeited his loved ones', just as he feared.

They never would have wanted him to do anything else. He knew that. And apparently he was not capable of doing anything else, either. He had known that their lives were in his hands during the robbery, but he had still abandoned all thought and rescued that night watchman when his life had been obviously in danger.

But . . . was there any chance Anton was lying?

A creep like him would probably lie without a second thought. And just maybe, if Fakir's earlier suspicions were correct and the gang had lost track of Ahiru and Charon, Anton was trying to manipulate him with a falsehood now.

The problem was, he could not know. If they did have Ahiru, she would either die from the torture or they would keep her alive until the next robbery. And if Fakir failed to comply with any orders, she would be killed then.

Maybe they would kill her anyway, because of tonight.

Would it still be better to keep to his plans of trying to bring the gang down? If he could just find a way to get the police notified, maybe he could save Ahiru before she was tortured to death. And if it were all a lie and she was not in danger, well, he would be doing the best thing anyway.

He was so involved in his thoughts that he scarcely noticed as they reached the top of the stairs and entered the plush jet. When he was abruptly pushed into a seat he looked up with a start.

"You look like death warmed over," the first guard hissed at him. "And you should know now that if you don't cooperate, your precious girlfriend will look even worse. You can get the color back in your face. She won't."

Fakir cursed him in his mind. "I know," he said, his voice dark and cold.

"And don't forget that your adopted father is probably going to be dead by morning," the second chimed in without any inhibitions. "If not sooner. By the time he was found, he had already lost a whole lot of blood."

"Shut up!" Fakir snarled.

The sentries backed off, both looking unmercifully pleased at his reaction.

Fakir turned his attention to the safety belt so as to avoid having to make eye contact with them. His hands shook as he pulled the strap over and clicked it into place.

Behind him, the other gang members were coming aboard. He could not care less; he was far removed from the scene.

Inwardly he cried out for Ahiru and Charon. It only took a moment for his silent words to become a desperate prayer for their safety. They should not suffer because he had tried to save someone else's life. They should not, they should _not!_

He leaned forward, digging his fingers into his hair. At this point, he was not sure how much more of this he could take.

xxxx

Autor did not awaken until morning. When his senses began to revive and his eyes slowly opened, he found to his surprise that he was lying in bed. He rose up on one elbow, studying the area through his blurred vision.

It was the room at the hotel. Charon was asleep in the other bed. Ahiru was probably slumbering in the adjoining room.

Autor lay back on the soft pillow, trying to remember. He and Ahiru had both been in the car and had fallen asleep there. Charon must have carried them to their respective beds after driving to the hotel.

He turned a bit red at the thought. He would have had to have been in a deep sleep for that to be the case. Either that or he had awakened so vaguely in order to walk to bed that he had promptly gone back to sleep and remembered nothing of it now.

He had not been carried to bed in years, not since he had collapsed on the floor with that fever and had been found by the servant. If that was what had happened last night, well . . . it was an appropriate close to his breakdown, he supposed.

Now that he had slept on it, it did mortify him. He had displayed such open weakness in front of Charon, and unknowingly in front of Ahiru too. He had allowed himself to be vulnerable.

And yet he knew they would never hold it against him. Charon would likely not mention it again. Ahiru might worriedly ask him if he was feeling better today, but that would be it.

As long as Fakir never found out.

Autor rolled onto his side, staring at the wall across from him without really focusing on it. He had tried to not think much on Fakir, even though he was the entire reason for this trek. It agonized Autor too deeply to mull over Fakir, and by extension, their friendship. But then he discovered, at times such as last night, that all of the pain he was not exploring was finding ways to haunt him nevertheless. Consciously he had tried to avoid it, but subconsciously it had not left him alone.

Instead of really thinking about Fakir, Autor had instead tried to concentrate on the facts and figures of the case and to analyze the possibilities and potential outcomes of their future choices. But his mind ended up wandering anyway and he found himself wondering if Fakir was alright or if he was being harmed.

Was there any chance that Fakir _had_ seen them last night? It was doubtful. He had been occupied, and then the van had got in his way, so there had not been much opportunity. For all he knew, Autor was dead.

When Autor had actually seen Fakir standing up by those crates, he had wanted to fling open the door as Ahiru had done and call to the other boy, letting him know he was alive. But he had restrained himself, not wanting the gang members to hear. And then he had needed to dive after Ahiru, who had not even seen the van barreling towards her in her frantic desperation.

Autor shut his eyes tight. If he had not been there . . . oh dear God, she would be dead. Or seriously injured. Even if she had not forgiven him, he knew that he could never regret tackling her away. Charon was right—there had been no other choice. Autor gave thanks that he had been able to move fast enough to preserve her life.

And he had to admit, he was relieved that she had forgiven him. He had been trying to keep himself under control, and he had done well with that until last night, but if he had to deal with Ahiru hating him he was not sure he could even do a good job on the case. He could easily picture closing himself off even more thoroughly than he had as a child. And after having experienced Ahiru's beautiful and pure friendship, to lose it like that would have irreparably shattered his heart. Judging from how this whole agonizing matter was tormenting him far more than he even wanted to acknowledge to himself, that would have weighed him down far too much to be able to stand.

But now that he was more rational than he had been when talking to Charon last night, he could not believe Ahiru would not have forgiven him. She would have calmed down and grasped the truth, just as she actually had done. She was too intelligent and kind and understanding to hold a grudge, especially under the circumstances when Autor had saved her life.

That was one reason why they got along so well in general, he supposed. In spite of her moments of immaturity and childishness, she was really an incredible, determined girl with a great deal of hidden depth. And her moments of not understanding terms such as "mole" and "plant" both amazed him and further endeared her to him.

Fakir had similar views on Ahiru's personality and behavior. The only main difference was that he and Autor loved Ahiru in diverse ways.

Autor sighed. Hopefully Fakir really did know that Autor was not going to take Ahiru from him, and that Ahiru was not interested in being taken away from him. Surely Fakir had spoken in anger and stress, just as Ahiru had done. There was still a part of Autor's heart, however, that worried over whether Fakir did understand.

_I hope we will get a chance to talk again, sometime soon,_ he thought, _and that we can resolve any lingering disputations._

_I suppose I shouldn't have grown angry with you, Fakir. I should have remained the calm voice of reason to counter your madness. At the heart of the problem, I was both hurt and afraid. I thought you were going to attack me. When you did, coupled with your insults, my feelings turned to outrage and indignation._

_I'm sorry._

Suddenly the door was opening a crack. He started, turning his blurred attention to the other wall. Ahiru, who was peering through the slit, jumped a mile.

"I'm sorry!" she squealed in a whisper. "I just woke up and wondered what was going on. We were in the car before. . . ."

"Charon must have brought us to bed," Autor said. He nodded towards the other bed. "He's still asleep."

"Oh." Ahiru nodded. "I'll go." She started to shut the door. "Why don't you come over?"

"Alright," Autor consented. "I'll get dressed."

Ahiru beamed and closed the door the rest of the way.

A slight smile played on Autor's lips as he reached for his glasses. Yes, everything seemed to be back to normal between them. They were the best of friends and hopefully always would be.

He hoped the same could still be said of him and Fakir.


	16. Improvise

**Chapter Sixteen**

Frankfurt was filled with banks.

At least, that was Fakir's immediate first impression of the city as he walked through the financial district with his two new guards. The skyscrapers towered above them, casting long, dark shadows across the roads and sidewalks. A lot of the tall buildings seemed to be banks' headquarters.

And people were everywhere—crossing the street, driving cars, and going into and coming out of buildings. Some of them bumped into Fakir. They apologized the first couple of times, but after a couple more Fakir wanted to growl, "Watch it!" Only the desire to not call attention to himself and his escorts stayed his tongue.

At least his injuries from the beating would not attract curious eyes. The cut on his head was just superficial; it had soon stopped bleeding and Fakir had managed to wash the crimson out of his hair. The wound was bandaged now, and hidden by the thick hair that hung over his forehead.

His ribs, too, were not presenting a serious problem. His right side felt quite sore, but as long as he was careful in his movements and did not jar it, he could manage alright and not reveal that he had been hurt.

His clothes mostly hid the rest of his assorted bruises, bumps, and cuts, save for one red mark on his left hand. It was not an extreme problem, as long as he did not accidentally hit it and start it throbbing again. If it turned black-and-blue, then he might have a dilemma.

Of course, it might actually be a good thing for him if his wounds were noticed and someone started wondering if something was amiss. But he did not know that he wanted to leave his rescue up to someone else; he wanted to take an active part in trying to determine how it would come about. If possible, he wanted to ensure all of the gang's capture in the process, not just that of some of the members. In particular he hoped to see Anton arrested. And figuring out how to accomplish that was going to take some definite doing.

Actually, he was surprised that he had been allowed outside at all after what had happened in Munich. But he supposed that Anton had decided that with two guards to watch him, there was no way anything could go wrong. And if someone happened to recognize him, the thugs would probably find a way to force him to write that the person would forget or simply not recognize him anymore. Maybe this was supposed to be some kind of a test. He should probably prepare himself for anything.

"So what's the job Anton wants pulled here?" he asked when they were away from a determined crowd.

"The owner of one of these banks went into business with us," replied the first. "But then he double-crossed us. Anton doesn't like it when that happens."

"So this guy's a crook too?" Fakir frowned.

"If you want to put it cheap like that," the man said.

"It's not my fault if you're all pathetic," Fakir said. "Anton has some legitimate businesses. Maybe you should all work on those."

"Anton has people working in those branches," said the second. "Our job is the more colorful stuff."

"I'd love to be working in one of the 'dull' departments right now," Fakir muttered.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was still trying to figure out what he could possibly do to bring about the gang's downfall. He had barely gotten any sleep on the flight, too upset and worried about the very real possibility of Ahiru being tortured and Charon on death's door. If he could just get word to the police about the robbery, and if they could apprehend the gang, then maybe Ahiru, at least, would be safe. And maybe there would be a medical miracle and Charon would pull through. He was hoping desperately that Anton was lying to him, but he could not count on that. He had to treat the horrible news as though it were the absolute truth.

"Is it going to be at midnight again?" he said.

"Midnight," confirmed the first. "At our 'friend's house." He sneered. "Erwin Loewe, the unfortunate bank president."

"And member of a rival gang?" Fakir said.

"He's not in a gang," said the second. "He just has a small group, with him and his board of directors."

"And Anton found out about it," Fakir said.

"He makes it his business to know a little bit about everything," the first told him. "At least when it's something that involves him somehow."

"That's nice for him," Fakir grunted. "And a mess for everyone else."

The thugs stopped walking and glanced upward. Frowning, Fakir followed suit. They were standing in front of a restaurant. It seemed to be what the creeps were looking for, as they turned their attention back to Fakir and prodded him towards the door.

"Now we eat," announced the second.

"You guys like to pick food places close by your jobs, don't you," Fakir remarked.

"Erwin Loewe's house isn't near here," said the first. He pulled open the door, gesturing for Fakir to go in ahead of them.

"But his business is," Fakir retorted. He walked past the man and into the lobby, wishing he could just keep on walking and get away.

He hardly listened as the crooks talked with the maitre d' about a table. Instead his gaze wandered over the entryway and to what he could make out of the main room from his position.

The restaurant itself looked highly crowded. Most tables had every seat taken. People were eating, laughing, and talking—thankfully not all at the same time. But it was loud and noisy and annoying.

One conspicuous table near the back had only one occupant—a businessman, judging from his briefcase on the chair next to him and the laptop he had on the table. Maybe, Fakir thought, they would end up stuck with him.

The only other person in the lobby was a woman talking on a cellphone. He heard snatches of her side of the conversation, but he did not care and stepped closer to the maitre d', who was unhooking the velvet barrier to lead him and the crooks into the restaurant.

"You are lucky that there is a table where you can have your privacy," the host was saying. "There is a very nice, secluded spot right over here." He led them past the businessman's table and to one diagonally across from it in a corner by the window.

The guards seemed pleased with it. "Thank you," said the first. "This is just fine." He pulled up the first chair, while the second began to herd Fakir to the one next to it. Apparently they wanted him to be in the middle.

The maitre d' nodded. "The waiter will come shortly to take your orders," he said. "Please let me know if you need anything else."

Fakir was not pleased at being sandwiched between the two gangsters. He had half a mind to tell the maitre d' that he wanted a different seating arrangement. But of course that would look ridiculous and not get him anywhere. Anyway, if he was going to try to find some way to put a plan into action he could not do anything suspicious right now.

From where he was sitting, he could look directly over at that businessman. The tycoon was closing the laptop and setting it aside in the briefcase, then lifting out a stack of papers. Was he waiting for someone he was meeting or just waiting for his food? Not that it mattered. Fakir averted his gaze, picking up the menu instead.

His guards were apparently unconcerned with the guy. He was probably not anyone important to them or they would be pointing him out to Fakir the way the original guard had indicated Siegfried von Schroeder.

Fakir's mind continued to churn as their orders were taken and then were delivered. Considering that he could not escape from the sentries' watch for so much as a minute, how could he possibly get any message out to the police—or to anyone else, for that matter? He placed a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, half-automatically, as he pondered.

Across the way, the businessman was finishing his own meal. After wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin he stood and walked parallel to the wall until he came to the restrooms. A moment later he had pushed open the door and disappeared inside.

If only it was that simple. Fakir was followed everywhere. Anton was familiar with the trick of going into a restroom and then trying to escape. In a public establishment the previous guard—whose fate Fakir still did not know—had either gone inside with Fakir or else waited outside the door and managed to look inconspicuous somehow. With two guards, they would probably do something similar.

Fakir cut off a piece of pork and stabbed it with the knife, biting into the meat. This was good food. He wished he could really, fully enjoy it. He chewed thoughtfully, casting a glance at the thugs. One of them was diving into his share, eating like there was no tomorrow.

That was giving him an idea. A vague, crazy, and probably hopeless idea, but an idea nevertheless. He started to eat faster.

Suddenly he dropped the fork with a gasp and grabbed for the napkin, choking and coughing. The gangsters looked up immediately, their eyes narrowed. Fakir snatched the glass of ice water with his other hand, still coughing as he brought it to his lips. But instead of the liquid helping, he only seemed to cough worse.

Now they were attracting attention. One of the men leaped up, annoyed and frustrated. "Hey!" he cried. "What's the matter with you?"

Fakir shook his head, gulping down more water. He coughed violently, forced to set the glass aside. As a waiter hurried over he was putting the napkin back to his mouth.

"What's going on?" the waiter gasped. "Are you alright?"

Fakir coughed into the napkin. "Swallowed something wrong," he choked out.

The waiter looked at a bit of a loss. "Is it serious?" he exclaimed. People from several tables were turning to look.

Fakir took the napkin away. "No," he rasped. "If I could just . . ." He coughed. " . . . Get away a minute . . ."

The thugs' frowns deepened, but the waiter was oblivious to their stormy expressions. He reached out to Fakir. "I could escort you to the restroom," he offered.

Fakir glanced back at the crooks, as if to get their permission. From their faces, they did not want to give it. But with so many people looking their way, and their desire to not be a spectacle, they did not have much choice.

"You'd better go," said the first.

"We'll come if you need us," said the second. He started to get up.

Fakir stumbled up from the chair, gripping the napkin. "It'll just . . . take a minute," he said. "I think it's . . . almost out." He coughed, holding the cloth over his mouth as he stepped away from the table and over to the waiter. Not waiting for either the waiter or the thug, he hurried ahead, weaving around tables and plants until he was through the door at last.

He straightened, looking around the brightly lit room. The businessman was standing at a sink, peering into the mirror as he combed his hair. Fakir wasted no time in stepping over to him.

"Listen up," he said, keeping his voice low.

The man turned, his eyes widening in utter surprise. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Fakir. I was kidnapped from Kinkan Town in Bavaria." Fakir's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a joke; it's the truth."

The businessman frowned, not certain what to believe. But the message was unusual and serious, and the boy's eyes held urgency, so he listened.

"I've only got a minute," Fakir said. "When I go out, I need you to call the police. Tell them Anton Schuster's gang is going to rob Erwin Loewe at midnight at his house. Tell them the kidnapped guy Fakir told you at this restaurant, and describe me."

Behind them the door swung open. Fakir stepped back, coughing into the napkin.

"Is everything alright?" the concerned waiter asked.

Fakir nodded. "Yeah. I got it out." He held up the napkin, revealing a small object in its depths. "Pork bone." He walked past the waiter and out into the restaurant. Shaking his head, the waiter followed.

The businessman watched as they departed. Abandoning his grooming, he left the restroom and returned to his table. As he gathered his belongings, he glanced at the table diagonal to his. The rough-looking characters the boy was with were demanding to know what had happened. But when Fakir apparently showed them the pork bone, they seemed mollified.

A slight smirk crept over the tycoon's features. The kid was smart.

Once he had paid his bill and gotten into his limousine, he took out his cellphone and dialed the state police.

xxxx

There was not much that Charon and the teens could do at the present time. While the police pored over Siegfried von Schroeder's employee list, Fakir's loved ones could only try in some small way to find where the boy had been taken. For hours they roamed the city, searching for any sign of him and asking people if they remembered seeing him. The answer was always negative. By the time they returned to the hotel, they were thoroughly exhausted and discouraged.

"They might lay low for the time being, since the police have been alerted to them," Autor said as Charon opened the door to their room.

Ahiru went in with them and flopped on Autor's bed. "Maybe they're not even here!" she wailed. "They could've gone somewhere else."

"Yes, but where?" Charon said, unable to hide his anguish and worry.

"Maybe another large city?" Autor suggested. "We came here on a whim. We might have to check other cities likewise, even Hamburg."

"We don't have the money to wander aimlessly all over the nation," Charon said, shaking his head. "We came here because it was close by and we hoped the gang might have planned to come here in order to throw us off the trail. We got lucky. What are the odds it would happen again?"

"Hasn't there been any word from Kirsch at all?" Autor asked. There was no point in denying Charon's statement. Autor was of the same mind as he.

"Nothing," Charon said. "There were no messages at the front desk."

"Maybe you should go to his room and talk to him!" Ahiru said as she looked over at him.

"If something happened, he would surely try to get in touch with us," Charon said. But he headed for the door again anyway. "I'm going to see if he's in."

He nearly plowed into Kirsch hurrying towards him from the other direction. The other man was ecstatic, his eyes wide and filled with news.

"The desk clerk said you'd just gotten in," he said.

"What's happened?" Charon exclaimed. "Have they found a connection?"

"This is even better than what they were hoping for," Kirsch said. He looked to Autor and Ahiru through the open doorway. The kids were both coming over, bewildered and hopeful.

"For Heaven's sake, what is it?" Charon demanded.

Kirsch advanced, stepping further into the room while Charon and the teens moved back. "The police got a call from some lady who works for a technician at SchroederCorp," he said. "A man named Heimbrecht. She said he never came home last night. Then today, she was cleaning through the rooms and found something carved into a wall, near the woodwork." He paused. "It said 'Fakir. Frankfurt.'"

There was a collective gasp.

"_Fakir?"_ Ahiru burst out.

"_Frankfurt?"_ Autor echoed.

The hope began to well in Charon's heart. "What does this mean?" he asked.

"It looks like it means Fakir left a message," Kirsch said. "The state police are out looking at it right now. They said I could bring you to see it too."

"Then let's go!" Ahiru cheered, running to the door. Autor hurried after her.

Charon lingered to pull the door shut as he and Kirsch stepped into the hall. "Have the police in Frankfurt been called?" he wanted to know.

"Yes," Kirsch said. "They should be being told right now."

They started to walk down the corridor to the elevator, where Ahiru and Autor were waiting.

Charon was still trying to fully process this news. "This woman didn't see anything suspicious yesterday?" he queried.

"Nothing," Kirsch said. "She said Heimbrecht had just gotten back from a trip and she hadn't expected he would be going on another one. Although she also said that sort of thing happens frequently. Apparently he's very busy at the company."

"And maybe with other things too," Charon frowned. "He must be part of Anton's gang."

Kirsch nodded. "It's starting to look that way. His name isn't familiar to you at all, is it?"

"No." Charon sighed. "I really didn't know them by name. I knew them more by face.

"But what about getting to Frankfurt?" he said now. "Are we going to be able to go there?"

"I'll arrange everything," Kirsch said. "We can probably fly up with a private pilot and save on the time and money of going by commercial jet."

"That's wonderful," Charon said. He could feel his voice growing a bit thick. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble at all," Kirsch said.

As they reached the elevator doors, Charon could see the same hope and joy in Autor's and Ahiru's eyes as he was sure was in his own. Now they knew that Fakir had been alright at some point after the robbery. He had even left a message in an attempt to be found.

Maybe Frankfurt would be the charm. Maybe that was where Fakir would come back to them.

xxxx

Heimbrecht's home was a three-story mansion in one of Munich's wealthiest residential districts. Ahiru and Autor could not help but stare up at it in awe as they got out of the car and headed up the walkway.

"Just imagine, Fakir being in a house like this!" Ahiru said. She frowned, sobering. "Having to be here with the gang would take all the fun out of it."

Autor nodded. "I wonder how he managed to carve that into the wall without them noticing," he mused. "If he had that much time to himself, maybe he should have tried to write something else instead—something that would have ended all of this."

"He probably didn't have his pen and paper and stuff," Ahiru said. "I mean, if he did, why would he have carved the message right into the wall?"

"Because it would be the least likely to be noticed by the gang," Autor said. "Paper would certainly be seen, as would dark ink on the wall. However . . ." He frowned as well. "You're probably right. They probably don't even let him have his writing materials unless they want him to do something for them. Which makes me wonder again what he used to inscribe his message."

Ahiru shuddered. "Poor Fakir," she whispered.

As they reached the porch, a police officer looked down at them. "Are you the friends of the kidnapped boy?" he asked.

"Yeah!" Ahiru exclaimed. "And Charon's his father."

Kirsch stepped forward, showing his badge. "I'm a friend of the family from Kinkan Town," he said. "I was told I could bring them here to see the wall."

The officer nodded. "Go right in," he said. "It's a small room at the back of the house. You'll be shown the way if you can't find it."

"I'm sure we'll find it without any problems," Kirsch said.

With that they walked up the stairs and through the open doorway into a spacious parlor. Ahiru looked around at the expensive furniture and designer clocks, her mouth open wide.

"This is so amazing," she said. "I wish this wasn't a crook's house and we could explore all through it with Fakir."

"We don't know for sure that Heimbrecht is a criminal," Autor said. "For all we know, he could be in the same plight as Fakir, dragged into this against his will."

Ahiru frowned. "Oh. Yeah, I guess you're right." She let out a sad sigh. "That would be awful. I can't imagine how terrible Fakir must feel right now."

"But he has been defying this gang," Charon spoke up as they journeyed down the long hall towards the back of the house. "In some ways that makes me feel better."

Autor knew what Charon meant by _some ways._ It was a relief to know that at least the police would surely not be able to charge Fakir with any crimes. And as a matter of principle, it was good that Fakir had not let them rule him like that. But it was also a great worry. The more Fakir defied them, the angrier they would get. And if they decided that beating him was not enough . . . well, Autor did not want to think about that.

Of course, the problem was that he did anyway. It was impossible not to think about it. Both he and Charon knew that well. And Autor was certain that Ahiru had never forgotten what Kirsch had said about that very subject. She did not want to talk about it aloud, but sometimes in her eyes there was a worry that could only come from knowing that a precious loved one's life was in grave danger.

More police met them as they came to the back of the house. A woman detective standing outside a room and writing on a notepad looked up.

"You can go on in," she said. "The carving is on the back wall."

Charon nodded. "Thank you."

Ahiru ran ahead of them as they were ushered inside. Two policemen were bending on either side of a section of wall, snapping pictures of something near the bottom. It did not take much more for Ahiru to be close enough to make out the inscription.

"That's what Fakir wrote!" she cried.

One of the officers started and looked over at her. "That's what it looks like," he said. "Do you know Fakir?"

Ahiru gave a vigorous nod. "He's my best friend!" she said. "Well, he and Autor both are. And we want him to come home safe and sound!"

"We want that too," the man replied. "We're going to do everything we can to make sure it happens."

By now Charon, Autor, and Kirsch had caught up and were also studying the wall. Autor bent down for a closer look.

"What do you think he used to engrave this?" he asked.

"We're not sure," the officer said. "It would have to be something tough enough to dig into the paint and plaster. And it would likely have to be something he had right with him, unless this room had furniture before he was taken away and he could have found something there."

"I don't see any indentations in the carpet where furniture could have stood," Autor said. He straightened. "Did the maid act like anything was here?"

"No," the policeman told him. "She acted like this room was normal, except for the writing. When asked why it was empty, she said she didn't know. Heimbrecht had apparently wanted it that way. She had asked him several times about furnishings, but he objected."

Out in the hall, the detective's phone rang. She answered, stepping away from the door.

Charon was frustrated. "I still don't understand how all of the servants could have heard and saw absolutely nothing strange last night," he said. "Are you sure no one has been lying?"

"The maid says she was the only one in last night," was the response. "And she was mostly organizing things in the basement."

"There's a helicopter pad in the backyard," the second policeman added. "We wondered if they could have left by helicopter, but I don't know how the maid would not hear that even if she was downstairs."

"Maybe she had a really loud vacuum," Ahiru said. Her eyes were wide. "You think they could have gone all the way to Frankfurt in a helicopter?"

"No," the policeman said. "But they could have taken it somewhere else. The fastest way to Frankfurt would be to fly. We're looking into all known airfields around here, both public and private. They probably wouldn't have tried for the international airport after the robbery, so it's more likely that they hired a private pilot."

At that moment the woman detective entered the room, her expression grave. Everyone turned to look at her in surprise.

"Is something wrong?" Kirsch asked.

"That was headquarters," she said. "They just received a call from the Frankfurt police. Apparently a businessman called them not too long ago. He claimed to have spoken in a restaurant with a teenage boy who identified himself as Fakir, kidnapped from Kinkan Town."

Ahiru's mouth dropped open. "Is he okay?" she cried. "What did he say?"

"According to the businessman, Fakir told him that the gang is going to rob Erwin Loewe at his house tonight at midnight." She frowned more. "Erwin Loewe owns a large bank in Frankfurt."

"Did he say anything else?" Autor asked, stunned and amazed by this report.

"Only for the businessman to tell the police about the meeting and to describe the boy. And the description matches Fakir exactly." The detective gave a contemplative nod. "If this checks out, Anton Schuster's gang may be going down tonight."


	17. The Second Robbery

**Chapter Seventeen**

Ahiru had never been on an airplane before. Of course, none of them had, and now, as they strapped themselves in and prepared for take-off, they were all nervous and excited and hoping against hope for what would be found in Frankfurt.

The plane had been grounded for several hours due to a harsh storm that had swept across Germany. Now that it was finally lifting and the conditions had improved enough for flight, there was no way that the aircraft would arrive before the designated time of the robbery.

Ahiru squirmed in her seat. "We won't even be there when it happens!" she berated. "What if something goes wrong and we're not there?"

"I doubt the police would let us in anyway," Autor said. "We'll just have to trust that they will take care of this and rescue Fakir."

Ahiru looked down. "Maybe it'll work out better without us there," she said. "Or without me, anyway."

"Now Ahiru, don't start that again." Autor frowned. "What happened before wasn't all your fault."

"You still blame yourself for that and other stuff, don't you?" Ahiru said, looking up at him.

Autor averted his gaze in discomfort. "Yes," he admitted. "But I'm trying to stop that. There's no way to know what the truth is."

"I know. But . . ." She bit her lip. "I feel so scared, Autor. What if no one at all can stand up against these horrible people?"

Autor fell silent, thinking over her plaintive question. "Someone has to eventually," he said. "Even if it's other gangsters."

"But we'll have faith that the police will be the ones to stand up to them," Charon interjected.

Kirsch nodded. "They're not going to let this gang get away if they can at all help it," he said.

"They haven't been able to catch them before," Ahiru said quietly. "I guess they _couldn't_ help it."

Now Kirsch was silent. It was hard to argue that point. Time and again Anton's gang had outwitted the police, much to their frustration and consternation.

"Well . . . this is a different batch of police," he said. "We'll see what they can do."

Ahiru nodded, trying to smile. "Maybe we'll have Fakir home with us tonight," she said.

Charon nodded too. "Just focus on that," he said, as the airplane began to rise.

xxxx

At the stroke of a cloudy and cold midnight, Erwin Loewe's street was dark. Even at his own house, there were no lights.

Fakir stood with the gang by the front gate, casting a nervous glance around the area. Where were the police? Were they coming at all? Had that businessman come through and called them in the first place? It had been a gamble, trusting in him to do the job, but Fakir had been desperate. He had had no chance to place the call himself. There had barely been enough time to tell the tycoon what needed to be said.

Maybe the police were out of sight, waiting for something illegal to be done before moving in to make the arrests. But did they really need to hold out for that when Fakir had been abducted? Something illegal was going on constantly.

The gang member who seemed to have taken Heimbrecht's place as leader when Anton was absent pressed the call button on the intercom. At first there was no reply. But the man was insistent; he pressed and held the button until at last a light came on in the house and the front door opened.

"What is this?" cried an older, balding man in a dark silk robe and pajamas. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

The gangster stepped over to look at him through the bars of the gate. "We do, Erwin," he said. "But this was something that couldn't wait." He sneered. "I'm sure you'll agree about that."

Erwin stiffened. Even in the dim light, Fakir could clearly see the fear on his face. Trembling, the bank owner began to back up in order to shut the open door.

"I don't have anything for you!" he said. "I've told that to Anton before. There's nothing to be done. Nothing!"

"Oh, I think there's something," the crook replied, his voice smoothly cruel. "We're just here for a little chat, Erwin. You're not going to turn us away, are you?"

"I most certainly am!" Erwin shot back. "Guards! _Guards!_" He stumbled the rest of the way past the entrance. Behind him, a younger man in a suit appeared. Erwin did not seem to notice.

At least, not until a gun was pressed squarely against his back. His eyes widened in horror.

Fakir stared. What was going on? This had not been part of the plan as he had been told.

The man at the gate looked pleased. "Your guards aren't going to be any help here," he said. "Angelo is already inside, aren't you, Angelo?"

The man with the gun smiled. "I'm ready for our meeting to begin," he said. "You can come up any time." With his free hand, he reached over and pushed a button. The gates began to automatically swing open, allowing the gang to step through and make their way towards the porch.

Fakir was prodded by both of his escorts. "You have your pad and paper ready, don't you?" said the first.

"Yeah, I have them," Fakir retorted. _But that doesn't mean you'll get what you want._

His stomach turned itself in knots. If the police were not here and were not going to come, what would he do then? He had been counting on them to end this torment. But if he was still on his own, could he really refuse again to write when he did not know if Ahiru was being held prisoner by the gang?

Erwin was still quaking. His horror only increased as the group drew closer. "I tell you, I don't have anything for you!" he said.

"And we say you do," was the retort. "Are you going to argue with us?" Every gangster drew his gun. Fakir clutched his quill.

Erwin looked ready to faint. "You've completely outnumbered me," he moaned.

But suddenly his entire demeanor changed. His expression turned hard and cold. "Then again, maybe I'll surprise you . . . and even Anton." A triumphant smirk crept over his features. "I'll still have the last laugh after all."

The sound of other guns' safeties clicking off filled the night air. The gangsters looked stunned. Fakir stiffened. Now what? Had Erwin's guards showed up? Was there going to be a gang war?

"All of you, get your hands up," an unfamiliar voice growled. "That's right, I said all of you. The kid, too."

Anton's gang swore. But instead of doing as ordered, some of them whirled, shooting point-blank at the newcomers. Erwin's apparent allies fired back. Now what filled the night were pained cries.

Fakir's guards grabbed him by the arms, pulling him below the raging bullets. "Come on!" snarled the first. "We'll get you to safety around the side of the house and you'll write that we win this fight."

"There's no guarantee that it'll work!" Fakir exclaimed as they fell to the grass.

"You'd better swear on your girlfriend's life that it'll work," the man told him.

But before they could even begin to crawl over the grass several cars' headlights turned on, illuminating the front yard. Another sound erupted through the chill air.

"This is the police. We have the house surrounded. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on top of your heads!"

The shooting had come to an abrupt halt during the amplified announcement. Now the members from both sides were standing around stupidly, unsure of what to do and hoping for guidance from their bosses.

The guards holding onto Fakir had gone sheet-white. "There wasn't enough time for the cops to get here," protested the second. "The shooting lasted maybe ten seconds at the most! That wouldn't even be enough time to call them on the phone!"

The first sentry recovered quickly from the shock. His complexion was swiftly turning red. "That could only mean that they were tipped off long before now," he said.

Fakir met his angry glare with narrowed, unmoved eyes. "Somebody in the gang did it then?" he said. "Maybe somebody here actually has a conscience. It's a surprise to me."

Without warning he was struck across the face. "It was no surprise to you!" said the first. "You're the one who did this. You have to be!"

"How could I have done this?" Fakir retorted. "I never had the chance."

"You found a way," the first told him. "I don't know how, but I know you did. And I swear, I've had enough of you. Anton won't let you live after tonight and neither will I!"

The police's megaphone interrupted the dire threat. "I repeat, everyone drop your weapons and come out with your hands on top of your heads. If every single person doesn't comply within two minutes, we're coming in."

By now some of the men on both sides had indeed surrendered and were being handcuffed. But the majority was not willing to give in. Some were firing their guns in all directions, hoping to hit the police and then make a break for it. Chilling cries reached Fakir's ears as some officers were struck. As the remaining police—all part of the Mobile Special Response Unit—opened fire in return, the rebellious gangsters began to fall too.

Several lights were hit in the melee, either on purpose or by accident. Fragments of glass flew into the air as the glare diminished. The police shouted directions to each other, diving for cover from the bullets and the broken lights.

Erwin slammed his door shut and locked it, determining that he would rather deal with one of Anton's men inside than however many were outside with the police. He was not going to be arrested or blackmailed if he could help it.

Both of Fakir's guards put their guns to his head. "You write that we escape," ordered the first. "I don't care if the police get everyone else. We're getting away, from them and from Anton. If we go back to him now, both our lives are forfeit. And that's not how it's going to be." He pushed the cold barrel harder against the back of Fakir's head. "Write it now or you're dead."

Fakir clenched his teeth. "The police are going to be coming in any minute," he said. "Are you really going to kill me and get a murder rap on your hands?"

"No, because you're going to write that we escape," the thug answered. _"Right now!"_

Fakir was still holding the pen. He gripped it between his fingers, looking down at the now-wrinkled and bent papers. "What if I say No?" he said. "What can you do about it? You don't want to call Anton and order him to kill Ahiru, because then he'll have you killed too. You as much as said that."

"One minute," came the voice on the megaphone.

The guard swore vilely. "If that's the way it's going to be, then you're going to regret it."

"Then kill me," Fakir said. "You heard the police—the place is surrounded. You'll never get away with it."

"It's a bluff," the man spat.

"You're willing to take that chance?" Fakir could feel the revolvers shaking. Both men were nervous. He was taking a gamble, but he had to pray that they were not nervous enough to shoot him without warning. That would be the stupidest thing they could do—and the worst for him. He would never survive two bullets to the head.

Abruptly the first guard got to his feet, dragging Fakir with him by the wrists. "Come on!" he growled. "Anton told us about some secret ways off the property. The cops won't know about those. And they're too occupied right now to stop us. With some of the lights gone, they might not even see us."

The second man got up too. "Can we really get away?" he exclaimed, the doubt obvious in his frightened voice.

"If we can't, the kid's going to pay for it," the first vowed. "Take his left arm."

Fakir reached to kick out, but the second man ducked and kicked him instead. The boy fell back, stumbling against the first man. The second snatched his left arm. Before he could do a thing about it, the criminals were running. He had no choice but to run with them or be dragged across the ground.

It was not long before the glow from the remaining lights began to fall away, opening up the yard to increasing darkness and shadow. The thick trees surrounding the brick wall on all sides of the property made it impossible for the police to be stationed there, unless they had managed to get into the branches. Fakir thought of that possibility, but the men he was with either had not or did not care. They just kept going.

They had reached the back of the house when the policeman called, "We know there's still three of you back there. Don't try to run; it won't do you any good."

Despite the implication that the police were going to either shoot or give chase—or both—the men only tore over the lawn with increased speed, the desire to stay free giving them an adrenaline rush. They did not see the shadow climbing down from a rare spot on the wall unobstructed by trees.

But Fakir did. "Help!" he yelled, taking a chance that the figure was a police officer. "I'm Fakir! I've been kidnapped!"

Even as they ran, the first man hit him hard over the head. "Be quiet!" he roared.

Fakir swayed from the sudden dizziness. Unconcerned for his ailment, his captors continued to half-pull half-drag him towards the thick woods at the back half of Erwin Loewe's property. Once they were in there, it would be much more difficult for the police to find them.

Fakir stared at the dark trees. Was there also one of those supposed secret passages in there? If so, they actually might get away. And who knew what would happen to him then? He jerked, trying in vain to pull himself free. The thugs only held tighter.

A gunshot rang through the air. At the same moment the second man gasped, releasing Fakir to sink to the ground. Blood seeped from his back, making its way into the blades of grass.

The first man only looked at the gruesome scene a split-second. Filled with a burst of unheard-of strength, he hauled Fakir with him into the trees. Behind them, footsteps were running over the ground.

"You're never going to make it," Fakir said as they wove in and out of the cluster of pines. "Your buddy's already been shot."

Again the man gave a vulgar curse. "If that was a cop behind us, don't you think he would have said something about stopping?" he said. "And he wouldn't even try to shoot with you between us. He'd be too worried he'd end up hitting you. You're our ticket out of here, one way or another. Even though now it looks like you're just _my _ticket."

Fakir's eyes widened, the dazedness leaving him. "Then who . . ."

He never had a chance to finish his sentence. The surface sloped downward underneath them, catching them both sharply off-guard. With a shared cry they toppled over and over each other, crashing to the bottom of the incline.

Fakir sprawled on the pine-needle-strewn forest floor. The world was spinning. He groaned, shutting his eyes to try to force it to hold still.

But then he was violently shoved backwards and his eyes flew open wide. The guard was bearing down on him, his visage wild.

"I hate you!" he screamed, his words mixed with profanities. "I'll kill you myself; I swear it!" He grabbed a rock, aiming to pound it into Fakir's shoulder.

Immediately Fakir reached up, grabbing in desperation at the man's wrist. "You're crazy!" he hissed, fighting to push him back. "You're going to bring them down on us for sure!"

But the thug no longer cared. With his other hand he picked up a second rock, which he dropped onto Fakir's sore right side. The boy cried out, unable to stop himself.

The pained yell twisted the monster's features even more. Hearing the object of his hatred in agony only fueled his motivation. He beat down on Fakir with his fists and with the first rock, in spite of the teen's frantic battle to ward him off. The blows were coming so fast that Fakir barely had time to try to defend himself against one before two more were falling. It was a losing battle from the start.

"I'll kill you!" the madman roared. He struck Fakir hard on the head with the rock.

Fakir gasped, the pain exploding through his brain. His hands fell to the ground beside him. He could not fight any longer; it was over.

The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was a calm, heartless voice that could only belong to Anton.

"No, _I'll_ kill _you._"

A gunshot and a scream rent the woods.

xxxx

It was raining and long after midnight by the time the airplane landed in Frankfurt. Ahiru was off nearly as soon as the engine was cut, running towards the hangar with her braid flying behind her. She did not even notice the freezing water.

Autor leaned out of the doorway after her. "Ahiru, wait!" he called.

"It's no use," Charon said, coming up behind him. "She won't stop until she's reached a telephone. Not that she'll even know the number to call."

Autor shook his head. "I'm anxious as well, but she really should have waited for Detective Kirsch to go first," he said. "We won't learn anything without him to place the call." Popping open an umbrella, he climbed down and hurried after his friend.

A trace of a smile came over Charon's features. "I felt like running just as Ahiru did," he said. "She just beat me to it."

Kirsch hesitated as they left the plane. "You shouldn't get your hopes up," he said at last. "Any number of things could have happened." But the spark of hope was in his eyes too.

Charon noticed it. "Any number of things _could_ have happened," he said. "And the possibilities aren't all bad ones."

"No, they aren't," said Kirsch. "In the best-case scenario, the police have already nabbed the gang and Fakir is safe with them." He sighed. "But cases rarely go exactly the way you want them to."

"As long as Fakir as alive and safe, I don't care about the rest," Charon said.

Moments later they were inside the hangar and Kirsch was dialing the number of the police. But it was not long before his eyebrows knitted and his tone grew grave while he spoke with whomever had answered the phone. The mood in the building began to dim.

"What's happening?" Ahiru cried, wringing her hands.

"We'll know in a minute," Autor said, trying to hush her. The worry was prominent in his eyes and voice.

Charon's heart beat faster. Kirsch had stepped away, speaking low into the receiver, but Charon could still hear snatches of the conversation. And what he was picking up could be good or bad.

"How many? . . . I see. And none of them are willing to talk? . . . What about the bodies on the property?"

The color drained from Charon's face. _Bodies. . . . _Who was dead?

Gangsters?

Erwin Loewe's servants?

Police officers?

. . . Fakir?

The cry to his side let him know that Ahiru had heard as well. Autor drew a sharp intake of breath.

"It doesn't mean anything, Ahiru," he said, keeping his voice low.

"It means too much!" Ahiru wailed. "All of it horrible!"

An eternity later Kirsch hung up the telephone. He walked back to the others, setting the device on the desk. His face was sober.

"What is it?" Ahiru pleaded. "What happened? Who's dead?"

Kirsch exhaled deeply. "There were several deaths, both police and gangsters, during a shootout," he said. "In addition, there's two more, mysterious fatalities. One of the unknowns was shot in the back, the other in the head. They were apparently trying to escape the property. The first was found just outside the pine trees Erwin Loewe owns. The second was at the bottom of a hill inside the small forest."

It was horrifying to hear about all the hurt and dead people, yet it was a comfort that Fakir was not listed among them. Ahiru, however, was still distraught. "What about Fakir?" she cried.

Kirsch shook his head, looking from her to Autor and then to Charon, the helplessness and regret he felt obvious. "They don't know," he said.

"Don't they know anything at all?" Autor exclaimed, unable to control his own dismay any longer.

Kirsch sighed. Stepping away from the desk, he began to walk up and down the concrete floor.

"Apparently Erwin Loewe is a criminal too," he said. "There was a gang war between some of his men and Anton Schuster's gang. It happened so fast and so suddenly that the police stationed around the grounds couldn't prevent it.

"They managed to stop it shortly after it started, however, and ordered everyone to come out with their hands up and their weapons dropped. Some of them came out. A few of Erwin's men confessed, but Anton's men have all been close-lipped. A lot of them tried to shoot their way out before being disarmed or shot themselves."

He shook his head. "The police know that Fakir was there; one of them swears he heard someone calling for help and identifying himself as Fakir. But he's nowhere to be found. The property is being searched from top to bottom, without success." He paused. "All they've found is a paper holder filled with sheets of paper. Every sheet is blank."

"Then Fakir still didn't write for them!" Ahiru exclaimed.

"Unless someone took the incriminating papers with them," Autor frowned.

"He didn't write for them!" Ahiru retorted. "I know he didn't!"

". . . The police are wondering if the dead men were trying to take Fakir with them," Kirsch said now. "But if that's the case, whoever killed them may have taken Fakir."

Charon stared at him. "Has Anton been seen at all?" he rasped.

"No," Kirsch said. "Unfortunately he wasn't one of the captured ones."

"_He_ has Fakir," Charon said fiercely. "He would never let Fakir go. Those men may have been trying to escape death at his hands for their failure. Anton would never allow them to get away."

Kirsch lowered his gaze. "That is possible," he said. "But if it's so, we have to keep the hope that Fakir is still alive."

Ahiru trembled. "Even . . . even if he is, we'll probably never catch up to him," she choked out. "We're always too late."

The others looked to her, stunned. "Ahiru, you can't say that," Autor exclaimed.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" Ahiru shot back. Tears slipped from her eyes and trailed down her face. "Something keeps going wrong. Every time we think it's going to be okay and Fakir's going to come home, it doesn't work out! Maybe it really _can't_ work out. Maybe . . . maybe we never will get Fakir back."

It was what Charon and Autor had feared, but had never wanted to voice. As Ahiru cried in despair, Autor took her in his arms, shutting his eyes against the flood of emotions that were threatening to rise.

Before, he had grabbed at Charon in desperation, his shattered heart coming out in his weeping. Now Ahiru was clutching at him in the same way, devastated and broken and frantically seeking for some small piece of sanity in this madness.

If only Autor knew how to give it to her. All he could do was to hold her and let her cry. It was not enough, it could never be enough, but . . . perhaps just knowing he was there and that he cared would give her some strength.

If there was any left to spare.


	18. The Tape

**Chapter Eighteen**

The trail had gone cold.

In eight days there had been no further information about Fakir and the remainder of Anton's gang at all.

For the first couple of days after the second robbery, Ahiru and the rest had tried to hold out hope that there would be some further communication from Fakir, since Fakir had managed to send out two messages so soon after the first heist. But there had been absolutely nothing. No one had called to report new and odd wall carvings or other unusual notices; no one had spoken to Fakir and felt the need to inform the police of it. Of course, maybe the gang was simply doing something different this time, or maybe Fakir just had not had a chance to leave any messages, or maybe he had and they just had not been found yet. Still, all things considered, it was a definite worry.

The police were relieved to have some of Anton's gang behind bars after so many failed attempts. But the men were completely unwilling to assist the investigation and tell the police anything they knew of where Anton might have gone and taken Fakir. If they did know, more than one of them had sneered during interrogation, they would not say.

"They're entirely unreasonable!" Kirsch fumed. "Even the promise of reduced sentences won't make them cooperate. Do they really think Anton will get them out of jail?"

"No," Charon said. "I've spoken to some of them and I don't pick up on any such notions. Nor do I think they're afraid that Anton will find a way to kill them if they talk." His eyes narrowed. "I think they're behaving like this completely out of spite."

The police felt likewise. They were looking into every possible contact on the criminals' records in the hopes of finding someone else who might be in the gang. So far they had not had any luck—only dead ends—but they refused to give up.

Unsure of whether to wait or to move on, Charon and the others had remained in Frankfurt. Autor believed they should try other large cities, perhaps Cologne or Hamburg, but the police had requested them to stay for the time being in case any leads turned up in Frankfurt. The police were looking through the other large cities, as well as everywhere else in Germany. And so, reluctantly, the group had lingered.

With each day that went by without news, Ahiru sank further into despair and depression. The others were helpless to know what to do for her. Autor had seen in her eyes more often than not the growing fear that Fakir was dead. But she did not want to talk about it. Instead she tried to smile and say she was fine—although she could no longer say that she was sure they would hear from Fakir. She could lie about how she was feeling, but by now her fears were too great to be able to even fully convince herself that Fakir was alright.

Autor and Charon tried to get her mind off of things by suggesting sites they could see in the city. She went with them and tried to be enthusiastic, but it was clear that her heart was elsewhere. More often than not she roamed the hotel, restless, going from one level to another. Often she went to the observatory on the top floor and stayed there for hours, just staring at the Frankfurt skyline and falling deep into her thoughts.

Autor, Charon, and even sometimes Kirsch checked on her repeatedly throughout each day. But it was only on the evening of the seventh day that she was at last willing to talk.

She looked up with a start at the sound of footsteps entering the otherwise-empty observatory. "Autor," she said softly in acknowledgment of her friend. He was always a welcome sight. Even when she did not feel like talking, he was ready and willing to be there for whatever she needed at the moment—even if that meant just waiting for her to feel that she could open up to him.

Autor came and sat next to her on the soft, floral-pattern cushions that ran the length of the room, underneath the large glass windows. "Ahiru, I know you're hurting," he said. "All of us are. Fakir is dear to me and to Charon as well as to you. But . . ." He hesitated, pushing up his glasses.

What he wanted to say now was something he felt had to be said. However, he wished he could find the way to phrase it that would hurt her the least. Especially since she had been trying to think of him and the others.

At last he determined to simply take the plunge. "Ahiru, don't you realize that we can see through your masks?" he blurted. "We know you're not fine, no matter how much you say you are. And when you distance yourself and wander off like this, it only hurts us more. We're worried about you and we don't know how to get through to you."

Ahiru's face crumpled and she looked down at her lap. "I know," she said softly. "I've been thinking about that a lot. I feel like I've been awful and selfish lately—not just now, but before, way back when the first robbery happened, and maybe even before that." She looked up at him sadly. "I feel like maybe deep down I've been thinking that I'm the most worried about Fakir and I've been kind of forgetting about everyone else's feelings."

Autor stiffened in stunned shock. "Ahiru, that isn't true!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea you've been thinking something like that. Even now, you've been struggling to think about our feelings. That's why you say you're fine when you aren't. You don't have pride, like I do. You just don't want to hurt us by showing how upset you really are."

Ahiru sniffled. "So it's just pride with you?" she said. "That's why you always say that you're fine?"

Autor cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "In the past, yes. I didn't believe people really cared about me, and I didn't want to be vulnerable, so I would tell them I was fine no matter what."

He sighed and looked away. "Unless it was my parents asking," he said. "I knew they cared, and I didn't want to worry them and hurt them by showing them that I wasn't fine. Pride was there then too, but there was the additional element of being concerned about their feelings."

He looked back to her. "Now that I know I have friends . . . more family, even . . . I don't want to hurt them. And I don't want to be vulnerable. I suppose both reasons for my behavior are still present."

Ahiru smiled a bit. "I don't really get the not wanting to be vulnerable thing," she said, "but I know you really do care about us and about Fakir. You're a great friend. I just wish . . ." She looked down again. "I wish I could give you strength like you've given me. Instead I just make you and everyone worry."

"That isn't true, either," Autor frowned. "I've long admired your strength and courage. To manage to smile and act cheerful when your soul is breaking into thousands of fragments is something very few people can do."

"I guess." Ahiru finally raised her gaze to meet his again. Desperately she searched his caring brown eyes for the firm assurance she needed.

"Autor . . . what do you think happened to Fakir?" she whispered.

Autor drew a deep breath. He had known this question was coming. He had tried to prepare himself for it. But in the end he doubted he had done a good job of it.

"I don't know," he said. "It's not the answer you want, Ahiru, and it's not the one I want to give, but it's the only truthful one I have."

Ahiru nodded sadly. "I don't want you to make up stuff," she said. "It wouldn't really sound believable anyway."

She wrung her hands in her lap. "Do you . . . think he's alive?" she asked, her voice even more hushed.

"I don't know," Autor said, quiet as well. "I want to believe so, but I don't know at all."

Ahiru looked at the floor. After a moment she slid her hand over, laying it on top of Autor's. "At least . . . we can want to believe together," she said.

Autor blinked in surprise. Then he smiled, resting his other hand on hers. "Of course," he said. "We can do that."

xxxx

"_Fakir, Fakir, Fakir!"_

_He grunted, throwing the covers over his head. "Be quiet, idiot," he muttered. "Do you know what time it is?"_

"_Fa__**kir!**__" Ahiru jumped on the bed, rocking it from side to side. "You've been in bed for ages! Come on, it's time to get up!" She grabbed his arm and pulled._

_Fakir pulled it away. "Cut it out!" he snapped._

"_Really, Fakir." Now Autor was getting into the act. And from the tone of his voice, he was smirking. "You're behaving like a child."_

_Fakir threw back the covers. "Look, I'm hurt, okay? Leave me alone."_

"_If you don't get up, you're not going to be able to get better!" Ahiru replied. She hopped to the floor and again grabbed his arm._

_To Fakir's surprise, Autor took hold of his other one. "We don't intend to let you leave us," he said. "You've already been gone far too long."_

_At last Fakir smiled. "Okay, you guys win."_

_He let them pull him up._

Green eyes slowly opened to the world around them. At the same time, a calm and unconcerned _tick-tock_ filled their owner's awareness. There was a clock somewhere in here.

Wherever _here_ happened to be.

The pain wanted to make itself known as well. With one hand he reached up, touching the throbbing bump under his hair.

_What the heck happened?_

It was all so vague in his mind. He remembered something about crooks, and a robbery, and a rock . . . but what about Ahiru and Autor? Where were they?

Almost as soon as he wondered, it all came back to him. He swore aloud, turning his head to the side. Ahiru and Autor were not here. They had only been a dream. He wanted to believe that the gangsters were the dream, something that would disappear upon awakening. But they were not. They were the reason he had been . . . whatever he had been. The last thing he even remembered was being hit in the head with the rock.

"You are awake at long last, young Fakir."

He froze at the unwelcome voice. "Anton," he hissed. Now he could see that the gang leader was sitting in a chair next to the bed. The man's arms were crossed and he seemed very nonchalant and unconcerned about the whole matter, as usual.

"You've been a lot of trouble, you know." Anton studied him, his observant gaze traveling over every inch of Fakir's body. "You've been unconscious for a week."

"A _week?_" Fakir regarded his enemy in disbelief. "What happened? Where are we?"

"I took you far away," Anton said. "I didn't want to chance us being found. We're at a house I own in Hamburg."

"Hamburg," Fakir muttered in derision. That figured. He was all the way at the other end of Germany.

Who knew where Ahiru and Charon were by now. He never had been able to figure out if Anton had been lying about torturing Ahiru and shooting Charon. If it was true, was there any possible chance that Ahiru was alive? It seemed doubtful that they would have let her live so long. And Charon . . . well, there was no way to know.

Autor was already dead. Fakir remembered that all too well now.

That had been a nice dream, though—with both Autor and Ahiru trying to get Fakir out of bed.

He frowned deeper. The dream had been what had brought him back to his senses. There was not any chance that . . . that both of them were dead now and they had been there trying to revive Fakir?

He gripped a handful of quilt. But they had said that they did not want Fakir to leave them. If they were dead, and Fakir died, then they would all be together. But they would not want Fakir to die to be with them, and . . .

Oh, nothing made sense. What was he even doing, trying to analyze a dream? It was just a product of his subconscious, longing for things to be simple again and to be back with his friends. It would not come true.

"What are you planning to do with me?" he asked now.

"That's a good question," Anton said. "There has been some suspicion among us as to how the police learned about the planned robbery in Frankfurt." He peered at Fakir. "Unless one of my men is a traitor, that leaves you."

"When would I have had a chance to do anything?" Fakir retorted.

"I would be very curious to know," Anton said. "But in any case, I wouldn't put it past you. You are clever and cunning, like your father was. If you were determined, you would find a way."

He leaned back. "I have been planning to take some of the wares of certain people at the harbor," he said. "It's a large-scale operation, much moreso than taking from Siegfried von Schroeder's warehouses. I don't want it to fail. I would like to have the assurance that you would help make it a success. Unfortunately, you have so far proved more of a hindrance than a help.

"You asked me after the first robbery if I remembered what was at stake. I wondered if _you_ did. I wondered even more after the second robbery. Despite what I told you about your other loved ones, you still defied us. You defied _me._"

"I don't even know that you really have Ahiru," Fakir said. "I saw Autor lying on the ground after he fell. He looked dead, so it was easy to believe it when you said he really was. You showed me that picture of Charon talking to the police, so I know that was true too. But I've just got your word that Ahiru is being tortured and Charon was shot." His eyes narrowed. "And that's not good enough."

Anton nodded as though he had expected this. "You're right of course, Fakir. I knew we would be having this discussion, so I took the liberty of recording something for you to hear." He placed a small tape recorder on the nightstand by the bed and pressed the Play button.

The horrible, unreal sounds of heavy objects connecting with a body, as well as the sizzles of electricity, filled the air. Fakir rose up on one elbow and stared at the tape, chalk-white.

"_No!"_ a voice wailed. _"No, stop it!"_ Unintelligible screaming pierced his ears. _"Fakir! Autor! . . . Help. . . ."_

The sounds of the torture continued. The screams eventually dwindled to whimpers and then to nothing. Not even another jolt of electricity brought a response.

"That's enough for this round," came Anton's voice. "Leave her be for now."

The tape ended. Anton hit the Stop button, saying nothing. Instead he watched Fakir, attempting to determine how this was affecting him.

Fakir was clutching the comforter, his hand shaking uncontrollably. Hearing all of that, really processing that anyone could treat someone else that way, was a horrible lesson that he wished he had never had to learn. Those sounds would stay with him for a long time.

And yet . . . he was not sure that the girl screaming was Ahiru. It had certainly sounded like her at some points, such as when she had cried their names, but other times it had not sounded exactly right. Still, with so much going on, it seemed logical enough that the nature of the torment could have changed her voice.

He ran his tongue over his lips. "Is she still alive?" he rasped.

"For now, yes," Anton said. "She's only useful to us as a way of keeping you in check. I had the hope that when you realized she actually was in danger, you would become more useful also."

Fakir shut his eyes tight, slumping back against the pillow. He was starting to feel ill again.

_What do I do? Oh God, what do I do? Is that really Ahiru on the tape? Even if it is, should I do what they want? What will really help her? God, please, tell me what to do. I don't know any more what's right._

"You have a great deal on your mind now," Anton broke into his frantic prayer. "I will leave you to think it over. But I trust you will make the smart decision in the end."

Fakir could hear him getting up and walking out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Fakir grit his teeth in anguish, not even trying to stop the agonized tears that had been locked up for days and now were sliding from his eyes.

_I want to make the smart decision,_ he said to himself and to God. _But what is it?_

xxxx

Leonhard von Schroeder was very concerned about the Anton Schuster case. It was not just that the man had stolen from Leonhard's brother, but that Leonhard had seen that kidnapped guy and had not been able to be of more help.

The police had contacted Siegfried with a list of the names of the gang members they had arrested in Frankfurt. They had wanted him to go over it in the hopes that he would remember someone on the list as having a connection to someone in the company, but so far neither he nor Leonhard had had any success.

"What are we going to do, Siegfried?" Leonhard exclaimed from where he was sitting Indian-style on the couch in Siegfried's office. "We can't go around asking the employees if they've heard of these people. Any one of them might be another inside person!"

"It doesn't seem to me that there's much we can do," Siegfried answered as he typed on his laptop. "We don't recognize the names. What can be done?"

Leonhard frowned. "There must be something," he said. "Hey, Siegfried, are all of our employees accounted for?"

Siegfried blinked in surprise, his hands paused over the keyboard. "As far as I know, yes," he said. "Except for the technician Albert Heimbrecht, in whose home they found the message from the kidnapped boy."

Leonhard nodded. "Didn't he just get back from a business trip and then disappear again?" He got up, going to Siegfried's desk.

Siegfried frowned. "That was somewhat odd, wasn't it," he mused. "The records show that he requested an extended sabbatical and it was granted. But if I remember correctly, it didn't say why he wanted it or who approved it."

"Or where he was going," Leonhard groaned. "We don't know if he went with the gang or tried to get away from them or was killed or anything!"

"The police have been trying to find him," Siegfried said, "as have I. We've all been through his home and through his belongings here at the company, without success. It appears he did not keep anything suspicious any place where it could be discovered."

"Maybe we should look again," Leonhard said. "Maybe even his business trips weren't completely legal! He could have got with the gang during some of those!"

"I have thought of that, as have the police," Siegfried said. "They've been looking into the details of his last business trip before he vanished. If there is anything to find, I'm certain they will."

Leonhard sighed, his shoulders slumping. "So there really isn't anything we can do," he said.

"No, I do not believe there is." Siegfried saved his document and pushed back his chair. "We should leave; we're going to be late for lunch with Mr. Schuhmacher."

Leonhard frowned. "You're really going through with that business deal, Siegfried?" he moaned.

"I know he is not the most pleasant person in the world," Siegfried answered as he stood. "In fact, he's really quite exasperating. But I see no reason not to go through with the deal. It will be very profitable to our company." He brushed his hair over his shoulder.

"I don't like the way he treated Mr. Charon," Leonhard said flatly. "I wouldn't want to do business with him after that."

"You didn't like him before that," Siegfried said.

"I know, but seeing how he acted with Mr. Charon made it even worse," Leonhard said.

"Well, it isn't as though he was not speaking the truth. Mr. Charon was dressed most inappropriately for the location." Siegfried headed to the door. "Are you coming, Leonhard?"

"Yeah," Leonhard mumbled. "But Mr. Schuhmacher will probably keep us waiting again." He started to walk forward, then stopped, his eyes wide. "Schuhmacher," he gasped. "No, it can't be!"

Siegfried frowned in confusion. "What is it now?" he asked.

Leonhard ran over to him. "You're not going to believe it, Siegfried," he said. "I'm not sure I do, either. Maybe I'm even wrong, but . . ."

"For goodness sake, tell me what is on your mind," Siegfried exclaimed.

The theory Leonhard expounded stunned the young CEO. He listened with narrowed eyes, mulling over the possibility of its truth. When the boy had finished, Siegfried came back to the desk and lifted the telephone receiver.

"What are you doing?" Leonhard cried in surprise.

"Calling someone else who would like to hear of this," Siegfried said. "Your idea may only be a wild goose chase, Leonhard, but in a case of this magnitude it should be mentioned anyway."

He spoke into the telephone. "Armina, get me the police."

His secretary's voice answered him. "Right away, sir."

xxxx

It was late that night when Kirsch received a call, the contents of which he could scarcely believe. He asked the officer to repeat it, not certain he had heard right. When he hung up, a new hope shone in his eyes. Immediately he went to tell Charon and the kids of what he had learned.

Despite the hour, all of them were still awake in Charon and Autor's room, trying to come up with something they could do to further the investigation. At the sudden, frantic knock on the door they jumped a mile.

"What's that?" Ahiru exclaimed.

"It might be news," Charon said, hoping against hope as he stood and went to the door.

"None of us ordered room service," Autor mused in agreement. "No one should be coming except the detective."

As soon as Charon began to open the door Kirsch hurried inside, his visage displaying his urgency. Charon regarded him in surprise. Autor and Ahiru leaped to their feet.

"Has something happened?" Charon asked.

"Yes!" Kirsch said with a firm nod. "There's been a new development in the case. It may be nothing, but on the other hand it may be the break we needed."

"What is it?" Ahiru cried.

"Has there been any possible message from Fakir?" Autor added.

"No," Kirsch said, "but there's a chance the gang has moved on. And we have an idea where to go to look.

"Pack quickly!" he continued. "We're catching the first possible flight to Hamburg!"


	19. Trickery and Surprises

**Chapter Nineteen**

By the time Anton returned to the room, Fakir had come to his decision. When he heard the door open he sat up more, pushing himself against the soft pillow. His head was still hurting, but not as badly. He told himself to ignore it.

Anton looked at him in approval, shutting the door behind him. "You're feeling somewhat better, I take it," he said.

"I'd feel even better if I could get something to eat," Fakir retorted.

"Of course," Anton nodded. "I will have something light brought in to you."

"But there's something else I want to say first," Fakir added quickly.

Anton watched him carefully. "And what is that?"

"I want to see Ahiru."

Anton's eyes flickered slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You heard her on the tape cassette," he said. "She isn't in good condition."

"Yeah, I figured." Fakir glared at him. "Who could be, after what you were doing?" He gripped the comforter. "I want to see Ahiru and talk with her."

"She isn't being held in Hamburg," Anton said. "It would be too inconvenient to fly her in. And even if we did, there's no guarantee that she would last the journey." He crossed his arms. "Do you want to be directly responsible for another loved one's death just because of a selfish desire?"

Fakir clenched his teeth. "I can't say for sure that the girl on that tape is Ahiru," he said. "Her voice doesn't sound right. If you can't bring me proof that you have Ahiru, I can say for sure that I won't help you."

Now he was certain that the faint emotion in Anton's eyes was anger. He had hit a nerve. Either Anton was just furious that Fakir was still defying him . . . or he did not have Ahiru.

"Do you honestly think that after enduring the torment we put her through, she would sound the same?" Anton said. "I don't know that she will ever have the voice you remember."

Fakir fought back his own anger at the very thought of Ahiru really being tortured that badly. "If you won't bring her here, then let me talk to her on the phone," he said, barely restraining himself from lunging at the monster in front of him. "Even if her voice is different, I'll know then if it's her."

Anton gave him a searching look before nodding abruptly. "That can be arranged," he said. "When I send for your food, I will call the associates of mine who are holding her prisoner."

"Good," Fakir said. "You do that."

With nothing more to discuss, Anton swiftly departed. Fakir leaned back against the headboard, a deep frown on his features.

If they really did not have Ahiru, the only way they could keep Fakir from figuring it out would be to keep the conversation short. He would have to think of several innocent-sounding things he could say to her that the gang would not pick up on and that only the real Ahiru would answer correctly.

He thought and plotted and pondered until the door opened again and a woman he did not know entered with a tray.

"Here's your food," she said brusquely, setting it across his lap. "And Mr. Anton has a message for you—you can talk to your little friend tonight at eight."

Fakir glanced at the clock. It was almost six. "You can tell Anton I'll be ready," he said.

She _hmphed._ "He'll know you will be," she said. "And you'd better be; I won't tend to you any more." With that she walked out of the room.

Fakir shook his head. He would not have been surprised if he had seen her fly out the window on a broom.

xxxx

The food was good and nourishing and stayed down, much to his relief. He had been unsure whether his body would even let him eat. When he tried to get up afterwards he felt weak and wobbly, but not terribly dizzy. A small bit of dizziness was probably normal after his experience, he decided. He was lucky it had not been worse.

The time before eight dragged almost unbearably. Would the girl he talked with actually be Ahiru, battered and beaten and tortured? Or would it be another victim, forced to pretend she was Ahiru at the threat of her life? Maybe she would even be someone who had not been hurt at all, an actress working with the gang to fool Fakir.

Well, he did not intend to let himself be fooled. He would figure out if the girl was Ahiru.

And then what? If he determined she was not, should he tell that to Anton? Or should he play along for the time being? If he could get the gang's trust again, even a small portion, maybe he would be able to find a way to get another message to the police about the third robbery. Then he would have another chance to get them all arrested and to get free himself.

On the other hand, if he knew the girl was not Ahiru and he said so, who knew what might happen to him then. He had no idea how patient Anton was going to be with him. Even though he was Ambrosius's son, and even though Anton would surely not want to end the life of someone so powerful, he probably would in a heartbeat if Fakir continued to not be of use to him. This might even be Fakir's last chance.

The door opened, bringing Fakir out of his thoughts. It was one minute of eight. Anton entered the room, holding his cellphone.

"I have young Ahiru on the line," he said. "You may speak with her now." He handed Fakir the device.

Fakir took it, hoping his hands were not shaking. "Ahiru?" he spoke. He half-feared what he would hear in return.

The voice was weak and rasping. "Fakir! You're okay! I've been so worried!"

Fakir's eyes narrowed. If it was Ahiru, she was very sick. "Idiot," he said, now not sure his voice was steady, either. "You're being tortured and you're worrying about me?"

"They wouldn't tell me anything, except that you'd been hurt bad!" the girl retorted. "I didn't even know if you were awake until just now!"

"Sorry." Fakir thought over the questions and comments he had planned. They could be cut off at any time. He should go for something that would tell him without a doubt right away.

"They have another job for me," he said. "If I go through with it, I'm going to see if they'll let you go."

"No!" she protested. "Fakir, you can't. You're not a bad person like these people are! Please don't worry about me. Please don't help them with anything!"

Fakir felt his blood chilling. Why would someone who was not Ahiru try to convince him to not help the gang? Were they just trying to be as accurate as possible? Surely they would know there was a chance that Fakir would change his mind because of Ahiru's pleading. And they wanted to influence him to help them, not to refuse.

He ran his tongue over his lips. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Look, we're going to get out of this somehow. And when we do . . ." He paused. If this was Ahiru, she would start screaming bloody murder at him for what he was about to say. But hopefully she would forgive him when he explained later. ". . . We'll have a nice duck dinner to celebrate," he finished.

"That sounds nice," she told him. "I'll be looking forward to it."

Suddenly there was a cruel slap and a cry. "Okay, that's enough," an unfamiliar voice growled. "Come on."

The phone went dead.

Fakir gripped it as it slipped almost out of his grasp. His palms were clammy, his heart racing.

It was not Ahiru. He had led the unknown girl into a trap that she never could have guessed. Neither she nor the gang would know that Ahiru had been a duck and would never dream of eating duck because of that.

There was a possibility that the gang could have had Ahiru captive and that she had died, necessitating this fraud. But Fakir would not consider that. He would focus on the idea that she had never been captured in the first place. They had lost track of her, as Fakir had thought before.

But he would not let on that he knew the girl was a fake. Once again he would play along with Anton's game, praying all the while that he would be able to foil the gang for good.

Anton pried the cellphone away from Fakir's fingers. "Well?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Fakir looked up at him. "You're worse than any storybook monster I ever read about as a kid," he snarled. "I'd even say you're worse than the Raven."

"How quaint." Anton pocketed the phone, unruffled. "Then you're convinced of the girl's identity."

"Yeah," Fakir said. In response to the phrasing Anton had chosen, it was not even a lie. At least, he was convinced of who she was _not._

"I trust that you are planning to follow through with the proposal I made," Anton said.

"I don't even have a guarantee that you'll let her go if I do," Fakir said. "You might decide to keep her around as insurance."

"Unfortunately, you are in no position to question it. Neither is she." Anton gave him a steely look. "And do you think she will last much longer under these conditions?"

Fakir averted his gaze. "You've made your point," he said. "Yeah, I'll go through with your 'proposal.'"

"Good." Anton turned to go, then paused. "And you had better follow through this time, Fakir. I will not be lenient about any further disappointments."

"I know," Fakir retorted.

He looked up again as Anton left and the door closed. _Now,_ he thought to himself, _if I can just find another way to get a message out without __**me**__ being found out._

xxxx

Ahiru was hopeful again. On the flight to Hamburg Kirsch had explained in further detail what was going on. Now all of them were desperately hoping that it was true. If so, there was a good chance of finding Fakir another time. And silently, each of them vowed that this time would have to be the time they brought down the gang and got Fakir back with them.

"I knew we should have come to Hamburg instead of waiting in Frankfurt!" Autor exclaimed. "That sniper supposedly received a driver's license there."

"Did the police ever learn more about that?" Charon asked, looking to Kirsch.

"There is a record of it," Kirsch said. "But when the police went to the address listed on it, it was a vacant building no one's lived in for years."

"And he was living there?" Ahiru said, her eyes wide.

"He probably just gave the address without living there at all," Charon said.

Kirsch nodded. "So that's a dead end. And the sniper himself doesn't seem to know much of what's going on, unless he just isn't talking. He claims he was just hired to shoot at all of you and that he saw your pictures, but didn't know anything about any of you."

"I suppose that could be true," Autor said.

The sight out the window then caught his eye and he stared out, amazed and awestruck. "Is that Hamburg down there?" he exclaimed.

Kirsch looked out his own window. "It should be," he said. "We've been flying long enough."

Apparently it was, as the pilot began to lower the plane further to allow them a better view.

Ahiru leaned over Autor to peer outside. "It's incredible!" she breathed, gazing at the twinkling lights and buildings and at the reflected light in the water.

"It's the second-largest city in Germany," Autor declared. "And the Port of Hamburg is the third-largest port in Europe."

"There's so much water," Ahiru said. Now her voice had taken on a dreamy tone. "I've never seen so much in one place."

Autor glanced at her. "Do you miss the water?" he asked, speaking quietly.

It was strange; he had never really stopped to think that she might miss swimming and being in the water as a duck. He had mainly always thought about how she had been introduced to humanity and that she could never really be just a duck after that.

Ahiru shrugged. "It's just kind of fascinating," she said. "I remember it was always really calming to be on the water." She smiled. "But I like being who I am right now even better than being on the water."

Autor nodded, pleased.

"Anyway, I can still swim and stuff," Ahiru said. "Fakir says I'm pretty good!"

That was true. Ahiru had trouble coordinating herself in dance class, but in the water she was quite different, even graceful. Autor had seen her swimming in the lake a couple of times and had been impressed.

Charon was still talking with Kirsch. "If the gang actually is here, do you think they're just going to lay low for a while?"

Autor and Ahiru came to attention, waiting to hear the answer.

Kirsch frowned, considering the matter. "I guess it's possible," he said, "but with so much wealth in the harbor, I wouldn't be surprised if they go after some of it before long. Anton has his finger in so many pies, so to speak, that there's probably someone in Hamburg whom he would say owes him something."

Charon nodded. It was nothing he would not have expected. He was concerned, but part of him wanted there to be another chance to have the gang in the open. If they tried committing another robbery, maybe the police would be able to arrest them and Fakir would be free.

"Are the police prepared for that?" he asked.

Kirsch sighed. "We need more evidence that the gang really came here," he said. "This theory that we have to go on is intriguing, but it still hasn't been proven true. They said they'd try to check in at the port, but they can't spare men very often just for a theory."

Ahiru threw up her hands. "Then how do we prove it?" she cried.

"The state police are doing everything they can," Kirsch said. "But until they can find something that actually connects this person with the gang, they don't have any reason to try to obtain search warrants for the locations he owns."

Autor frowned. "Can you obtain a list of those places?" he asked.

Kirsch gave him a look. "I think so, yes," he said. "But what is it you have in mind?"

"There wouldn't be any harm going to those places and looking to see if there's any sign of the gang members or Fakir," Autor said.

Kirsch nodded, not surprised. "And then trying to move in for a closer look," he said flatly.

"If it's possible," Autor said. "We would do it on our own time. You wouldn't have to come."

He glanced to Ahiru and Charon for confirmation. Ahiru gave a firm nod. Charon looked just as eager to have something to do on the case. This was not something he would ordinarily condone, but he was desperate to get his son back and desperate to find some way to get the gang convicted. If they could prove something crooked was going on in one of those locations, it would certainly help.

"You shouldn't go it by yourselves," Kirsch said. "Technically, I'm on my own time too."

"Then you'll help us?" Ahiru exclaimed.

"I shouldn't," Kirsch said. "But yes, I will." His eyes narrowed. "If Fakir is in Hamburg, we'll get him back this time."

xxxx

Fakir had been up off and on for the past few hours, trying to regain his strength by walking around the room. Apparently he was not going to be allowed out for a while—maybe not even until the time of the heist. There was a connecting bathroom, but no other rooms that he had access to from here.

He moved to the door, trying the knob again. It was still locked. And he would not be surprised if there was also a guard right outside to prevent him from going anywhere if he got the thing open.

Anton had never trusted him very much. After the last two robbery attempts, any trust he had had was likely gone. Fakir would almost certainly have a more difficult time leaving any messages about the third job.

The gang had not succeeded in taking as much as they wanted in the first one, and they had not even been able to take anything at all in the second one, to Fakir's knowledge—unless there had been members in Erwin Loewe's house who had located what they wanted and escaped through the fabled secret passages. Anton had not said one way or another, and Fakir did not particularly care. Erwin was a crook too; what he had was probably already stolen from someone else. Fakir had tried to contact the police about that robbery not because he had really been concerned about Erwin, but because it was the right thing to do . . . and more because he had hoped so desperately that the gang would be caught and Ahiru would be found if she was a prisoner.

Now he knew Ahiru was not being held hostage. He did not even know that the girl he had spoken to was in danger at all. And he was determined more than ever to fight this.

He glanced up at the walls and ceiling. Could there be hidden security cameras watching him? It would not surprise him in the least if Anton decided to pull something like that. He would have to be extra careful.

Crossing the room, he eased open the bathroom door and peered inside again. He had already studied the place several times, but he kept longing to find something he had missed or for a new idea to come to him that would be a help.

He stepped inside, flipping on the light. The central air whirred to life, as it did whenever the bathroom was lit. That was fine with him; it would muffle any noise he might make while searching.

He opened the mirror, examining the medicine cabinet. It was bare. They did not want him getting hold of any kinds of pills, it looked like. But to not have anything at all? Did they think he would try to write his way out of this with a tube of toothpaste?

Actually, if he had one, that was not a bad idea. But they had tried to make sure that there was nothing for him to write with.

He turned away and ran his hand over the window at the back of the room. It was locked, of course. According to the sticker in the corner, the alarm would go off if he tried to unlock it. And with the glass frosted, he could not even tell what it looked like outside.

He left the bathroom but kept the light on as he again wandered the room he had been put in. There was not much in there other than his bed, the nightstand, and the chair. And the nightstand's drawers were empty. He had checked.

There was a window here, as well—also sporting an alarm notification sticker. He pulled back the curtain, looking out at the lonely night. A fog was rolling in, probably from the docks. Aside from that, he could see the large hedge that seemed to run the length of the property. And behind _that_ was a brick wall. Anton was determined to keep people out.

The sudden roar of an engine made Fakir start and then fall back in surprise. It was too loud to be a car just driving past. Actually, when he thought of it, he had not even heard any going by all day. It must be a quiet road. And right now, someone must be deliberately coming here.

He let the curtain fall back into place and returned to the door. Maybe if he pressed himself against it he would be able to hear something. He had no idea where this room was relative to the rest of the house. For all he knew it was at the very back.

Somewhere a door was opening. Footsteps echoed through what must be a large hall. He frowned, pressing himself harder into the door. Right now he could only hear that people were talking, without being able to make out words. He willed himself to be patient.

At last something was becoming audible, if he strained to hear.

"What did you say was wrong? You took your time getting here." It was Anton speaking. And for once he did not sound aggravatingly calm. He actually sounded annoyed.

"You know how the traffic is around here," a more jovial, unfamiliar voice replied.

"I know that you've been gone days longer than you were supposed to have been." Now the calm tone was back, but there was definite danger in Anton's voice. "You were supposed to come as soon as I informed you of the disaster in Frankfurt."

"I had business to tidy up. There was a follow-up meeting with von Schroeder today."

Fakir's eyes widened. _Von Schroeder?_ Who was this guy?

"And how did that go?" The voices were holding steady; they must have stopped somewhere in the hall. Fakir was grateful that they were in hearing distance.

"He didn't suspect a thing. This is going much more smoothly than your previous attempt to do business with him—the failed attempt that you used as your reasoning for the robbery in Munich."

"I don't need you to remind me what I did. My memory is flawless."

"Whatever you say.

"You mentioned that the boy has revived at last."

"Yes, and seven days later than he should have. At least the one who put him into that state paid for it."

The unconcerned tone sent a chill up Fakir's spine. The man had no conscience.

"And do you have the boy back in your tight grasp?"

"I do. He only needed to know about his young friend and he at last gave in."

"Then you really think he will help us when we go after the port?"

"If he doesn't, and believes this can go on indefinitely, he is very mistaken."

"Ah. The third chance is his last?"

"Most likely. Either that or he will wish it had been."

"That's what I like about you, brother. You're completely ruthless."

_Brother!_ Fakir was stunned. He had no idea that Anton had any family members around. But he supposed it should not be a surprise that his sibling was a crook too. Although it sounded like the guy was at least pretending to have a legitimate front as a businessman.

"And you aren't careful enough. I don't care that you wanted to close your deal with von Schroeder; you should have come back when I said so."

Suddenly the more jolly voice became dead serious. "I'll come back when _I_ say so, Anton. Maybe you technically own this house, but I earned my right to live in it and the papers are in my name."

For a moment there was silence. Anton was responding with a glare, Fakir supposed. But then the leader came back with a tone of ice.

"If you go against my wishes, you forfeit that right." A gun clicked. "Do I make myself clear, Bernhard?"

Another brief silence. "Yes, you have, Anton."

"Good. I'd hate to rid myself of you now, since you have been useful in some ways." Anton took several steps forward. "We will converge on the docks tomorrow night."

"What do you want me to do, brother?"

"Stay here and wait for us to return with the first load. We'll be storing it here."

"All of it?"

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not if there's enough room. And if it's divided up that night, as planned."

"Everything is going to go according to plan. Including that boy's assignment. I don't want there to be any leeway for him to get out of writing tomorrow night."

"Then maybe the only solution is to hold onto him yourself. The guards haven't done any good."

"I intend to. I'll keep a gun against his head the entire time."

"Guns always make the best intimidation?"

"Not always. But they're convenient insurance.

"Come into the study and I'll show you the plans in detail."

The footsteps faded. Fakir leaned back, reeling from the information.

This was going to make everything harder. He had been able to outsmart the guards, but could he go up against Anton himself and still manage to not write?

Could he manage to not write and still stay alive?

He clenched a fist. Somehow, he had to find a way.


	20. Around Hamburg

**Notes: This chapter marks the beginning of the climax.**

**Chapter Twenty**

"My feet are killing me!"

Ahiru groaned, slumping against the side of a brick building on a normally busy but currently empty corner. The handle of her small white purse was held loosely in her hands.

Autor pushed up his glasses and watched her in some amusement. "As I recall, you were the one who suggested walking through this business district, so you could get a better feel for the city," he remarked.

"Yeah, I know," Ahiru said. "I just wasn't expecting everything to be so _big._"

"Even though we've been around two other cities already," Autor said.

"Most of the time we were in Frankfurt I was too upset to even pay attention," Ahiru said. "But now that we have Detective Kirsch's list and we can look around for Fakir with more hope, I'm paying a lot of attention!"

"Just remember that we are not to do anything rash," Autor cautioned. "We're only to look."

"But what if we really do see Fakir?" Ahiru protested. "What then?"

"We call the police." Autor was firm. "And then we wait."

"What if there's extenuating circumstances?" Ahiru returned, emphasizing each little-used syllable.

"Then we might have to not wait," Autor admitted.

Ahiru gave a satisfied nod. "I hope there's extenuating circumstances," she said. "Then we can get to Fakir sooner!"

"Personally, I hope there isn't," Autor said. "We've waited this long; we could wait a few more minutes. I don't want to be forced into a position where we have to save Fakir and risk making another horrible life-and-death blunder out of it. I'd be perfectly content to let the police handle this."

Ahiru pushed herself away from the building. "I guess I should be too," she said. "But . . . I just . . ." She gave a sad sigh. "I want to feel like I really helped save him and didn't just make a phone call."

"The phone call could be the best help we could give," Autor said. "Nevertheless, I know how difficult it is to only be able to stand at the sidelines and watch while feeling helpless and useless." He looked away. "That's how Fakir and I felt when you had to battle the Monster Raven."

Ahiru blinked and looked to him. "But Fakir was helping all along the way!" she said. "He was writing the Story out and giving me strength. And you were helping him!"

"I realize that. But both of us wanted to be right there with you, actively involved in the fight instead of staying behind."

Ahiru took several steps towards him. "I thought back then, you wanted to be in Fakir's place and write," she said.

"At first, yes, I did," Autor said. "But when Fakir and I could only stand there and watch you running towards the town square . . . I wanted more than anything to stop you, to tell you not to do something so foolhardy and dangerous. Then I wanted to go with you. But I knew that was not where I would be able to do the most good. So I forced myself to go inside with Fakir, and later, to stop him from fatally running out when he wanted to abandon the Story and go to you."

Ahiru tilted her head to the side. "I didn't know any of that," she said softly.

"Of course, you couldn't have. I never told you, and at that time I wasn't about to let my feelings show. I was still trying to deny the extent of my caring for you, although I realized shortly afterwards that it was impossible." Autor glanced away, uncomfortable. "Anyway, my point is that sometimes what we would like to do is not necessarily what we would be the most useful doing."

Ahiru gave a slow nod. "Yeah . . . I understand," she said. "But . . . I still hope I'll be able to do more than just make a phone call."

Autor half-smiled. "Some part of me, perhaps the illogical part, wishes the same for myself.

"But speaking of phone calls . . ." He looked up, scanning the street. "We need to find a phone and call Detective Kirsch. It's time for us to check in with him and Charon."

"Oh yeah!" Ahiru perked up, looking around too. "That's right! We don't want to be late; maybe they've found something!"

"And if we're late, they'll worry that _we've_ found something—most likely something we shouldn't have." Autor glanced at the building they were standing by. "We can't go in there to call, just in case there is some connection with the gang and one of them will overhear. Come on, there should be a telephone booth somewhere nearby."

With that he led her to the next block and up the sidewalk. Still within sight of the building they had walked past was indeed a telephone booth. Autor hastened to it, digging in his pocket for a coin at the same time.

"We're lucky this one accepts coins," he said as he placed it in the slot. "Most of them demand telephone cards, which I do not have."

Ahiru made a face. "Yeah, you don't need those things back home."

"We may before long," Autor said. "Now that we're free of Drosselmeyer, the town has been gradually embracing modern devices." He took up the receiver and dialed the number of Kirsch's cellphone.

Ahiru scrambled into the booth with him. He gave a start, not particularly appreciating having his personal space invaded. The booth was not designed for more than one person. But he sighed and did not try to rout her out.

After a moment there was a _click._ "Hello?"

"Detective Kirsch, this is Autor," the boy greeted. "Ahiru and I are checking in as planned."

"Good. Have you had any luck? There hasn't been anything remotely suspicious here."

"Our luck has been the same," Autor said, turning to look towards the building he and Ahiru had been at moments before. "We haven't seen anyone we recognize."

"Alright. What's your location? We'll come by and pick you up. There's still a couple of residential locations to try."

Autor gave the address, all the while watching the apparently innocuous building. Curious, Ahiru turned to look at it as well.

"Alright, stay where you are," Kirsch told them. "We'll be there in a few minutes, if the traffic permits."

"We'll be here," Autor assured him.

He hung up, relieved that they would be moving out of the phone booth. "Let's wait out here, by these stores," he said.

Ahiru was not paying attention. Autor frowned, looking at her questioningly. "Ahiru, are you listening?"

Ahiru shook her head. "Not really," she said. "Look! There's a guy coming out of the building."

Autor raised an eyebrow. "Do you recognize him?"

"I can't tell from here," Ahiru said. She scrambled out of the booth and moved down the sidewalk, towards him.

Autor hurried after her, grabbing hold of her wrist. Before she could protest, he was pulling her behind a tree.

"If he is part of the gang, we can't let him see us," he scolded. "We have to be inconspicuous."

Slowly, both of them looked out from behind the tree. The man was standing on the corner, checking his watch with impatience.

"He must be waiting for someone," Autor noted.

They continued to watch. Ahiru shifted, uncomfortable staying in this position for an extended amount of time.

"My legs and back and shoulders and everything are cramping up!" she exclaimed.

Autor reached behind himself, rubbing at his own shoulder blades. "It is monotonous," he agreed. "Apparently our 'friend' is getting restless too."

The man was now pacing up and down the sidewalk, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. At the sudden roar of an engine he stiffened, turning to look as a car approached and pulled over to the curb. He leaned down, exclaiming through the open window.

"Where have you been?" he cried.

Autor raised an eyebrow. He was yelling so loudly that he and Ahiru could both hear. The driver's reply, however, was indistinguishable.

From their position, the driver's side of the car was facing them. And as the driver turned slightly, Ahiru gasped, grabbing Autor's arm. "Autor!" she squealed.

Autor had stiffened. "He's from the gang," he said in amazement and disbelief. "I could never forget his face."

"Then we must be on the right track!" Ahiru said. "The building is owned by someone in the gang, maybe even that awful Anton, and the gang comes here!"

"It certainly looks that way," Autor said.

What were they going to do now? The man they had been watching was opening the door to get in. If they followed on foot, they would not get far. And they were supposed to wait for Charon and Kirsch. But then they might lose the car for sure. And if both of these people were involved in the gang, which was what it looked like, how could they miss out on a possible chance to follow them and maybe find Fakir?

The sound of a car pulling up next to them was the most welcome sound imaginable at that moment. Autor hurried over, thrusting open the back door.

"A member of the gang just drove up over there!" he announced to Charon and Kirsch as he threw himself inside.

"What?" the men boomed in unison.

Ahiru scrambled in after Autor, shutting the car. "They're driving off right now!" she said. "Quick, we have to try to follow them!"

Kirsch, who was driving, gunned the engine. "You're positive he's one of the gang?" he said, keeping the other vehicle in sight as it started down the street. He turned the corner, allowing one car to come between them as he pursued it.

"Yeah!" Ahiru declared.

"Definitely," Autor said at the same time. His eyes narrowed. "He was at the mansion the night they took Fakir."

Charon's visage twisted in anger. "Don't lose them!" he instructed his friend.

"I'll do my best," Kirsch said. "Traffic here is leaving something to be desired."

"I've already memorized the license number," Autor said. "In case we lose track of them, you can call the state police and report it."

"If that would help," Kirsch said. "The other license number you reported belongs to a car owned by someone using a false name and another fake address."

Ahiru stared at him. "So it didn't help at all?" she said in dismay.

"It still might," Kirsch said. "The police have linked that alias with several others used by the same person. He'll hopefully slip up sooner or later."

Somehow he managed to keep the suspicious car in sight as they traveled through the business district. Eventually it turned onto a side road and parked near an old, brick building. The man in the passenger seat leaped out and ran up to the door, knocking firmly and furiously.

Kirsch parked across the street and down a ways, hopefully out of their sight behind a thick bush. "What's going on?" he muttered. "Is this another hideout?"

"It doesn't look like they plan to be here long," Autor said. "The other man is staying in the car and letting the engine run."

The door of the building opened by someone unseen. The man spoke with whomever it was, his voice too low to be overheard. After a moment he returned to the car and got in. They sped off, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

Kirsch started the engine of their car, moving slowly towards the building in case someone was watching. "Can you see what kind of place it is?" he asked, trying to keep his attention on the vehicle ahead. They could always come back and examine this location later, or tell the state police about it and have them do it. But the car would get away if they stopped now.

The others turned to look to their right, studying the brick edifice. "It seems to be a photography shop," Autor noted. "They develop film."

Ahiru read through the old sign above the door. "'Peter's Photography,'" she announced.

"It certainly sounds innocent enough," Autor said.

"There is the chance that the business is legitimate," Charon said. "And the one that man was standing in front of downtown, too. Even if it is connected with the gang, Anton supposedly has legal enterprises. Maybe that man has no idea he's traveling with a criminal. Maybe whatever they stopped for here was upright as well."

Kirsch nodded. "Anything is possible," he said. "We don't even really know that the first man works at that building. Just because he came out of it doesn't mean much."

Ahiru looked with nervous eyes towards the other car. "Do you think they know they're being followed?" she wondered.

"If they don't by now, I can't think they're very intelligent," Autor said. "Although that would be a good break for us."

"We could sure use one," Ahiru said.

But if the occupants were not aware of their shadow, they were certainly doing an inadvertently good job of appearing otherwise. Now, as Kirsch tried to catch up with them again, they sped around corners, zigzagged over streets, and vanished in front of other cars.

Kirsch gripped the steering wheel in frustration. "They must be trying to get rid of us," he said.

"And they're getting away with it," Charon growled.

He clenched a large fist on the armrest. There was one possible clue slipping away from them now. They would probably never know if those people could have led them to Fakir.

Kirsch was trying his hardest, but he could not seem to locate the vehicle. It had completely disappeared into the late-afternoon traffic. Cars were swarming from all directions, making it impossible to see far ahead.

At last he pulled over to the side of a road and stopped. "It's no use," he said, feeling grim. "I can't see where they went at all."

Charon bowed his head. "You tried," he said.

For an agonizing moment a discouraged silence settled over the car. There had been so many disappointments on this case already. It was hard to have to take another one, especially after their renewed hope.

". . . We do still have those other addresses to investigate," Autor spoke. "And maybe we should try to find out more about that photography shop."

Ahiru started. "That's right!" she exclaimed. "Maybe we should split up again and . . ."

"No!" Kirsch interrupted. "The photography shop could be dangerous. Maybe it was even the person there who told the other man that they were being followed. We should stick with the original plan of looking at those residential addresses. If we don't find anything at either of those, then we'll decide what to do about the shop."

"That's fair enough," Autor said.

"I just hope it's safe enough," Kirsch said.

xxxx

The first of the homes on Kirsch's list was a large, white manor with several pillars supporting a small roof over the front door. The sight of it gave everyone a start; it eerily resembled the mansion near the forest outside of Kinkan.

"It's like it was built to look like that other place!" Ahiru wailed. "The gang has to be here! It looks just like a place they'd want to stay at!"

"It's very likely just a coincidence," Autor said. But he was frowning at the abode himself. It was a very odd coincidence. In spite of trying to tell himself he was being overly sensitive and cautious, it did not fully work.

"I don't see any cars," Kirsch said. "It actually looks vacant."

"Does your list say how long each location has been owned?" Charon asked.

"Yes," Kirsch nodded. "This is the most recent. It was purchased several months ago."

Autor undid his seatbelt and began to climb out of the car. "Let's at least try to see if we can catch sight of anything important through the windows," he said. "The curtains on the window to the right aren't pulled together as much as they should be."

"Be careful!" Charon exclaimed. He started to exit the car as well. "We only agreed to let you and Ahiru walk past some of the businesses on the list because they were in areas with lots of people and we thought you'd be less likely to get into danger. But out here there doesn't seem to be anyone around. If the house isn't empty after all, you could be grabbed and pulled inside!"

Autor paused, waiting for Charon and the others to join him on the walkway. When they were together he headed in determination towards the window in question. He pressed himself against the glass, peering through the slit at what he could see of an old living room.

"Can you see anything?" Ahiru demanded, trying to look over his shoulder.

"Yes!" Autor declared, excitement tingeing his voice. "It looks like there are stacks of wooden boxes in that room."

Charon's eyebrows lifted. "Such as the crates from the first robbery?"

"Possibly. Or maybe from other robberies." Autor pushed himself away from the pane. "What if there are houses such as this in many different cities, all containing wares that the gang has pilfered?"

"That could be," Kirsch nodded. "And they might all be listed under respectable names. No one would think of those people being members of the most notorious gang in Germany."

He sighed. "On the other hand, there could be a perfectly legal explanation for the crates in there."

"There could be," Autor agreed. "But will you call in about it anyway?"

"Unless we could make out an incriminating name on a crate, it still wouldn't be enough evidence to get a search warrant," Kirsch said.

Again Autor pressed himself against the window. "I don't see any names," he said. "All of the crates appear blank."

"Maybe they turned them away so the names wouldn't show!" Ahiru exclaimed.

"I wouldn't put it past them," Kirsch said. "But I can't call the state police and tell them to come investigate a perfectly legal house with stacks of crates in the living room." He shook his head. "If we could only connect that man with the gang!"

"Let's walk around the property and see if we can discover anything else of interest," Autor said. "If not, we should move on to the other house. It won't be long now and it will be dark."

The others consented.

A walk around the perimeter of the house revealed nothing. Several other curtains were slightly apart, but looking through the windows displayed only old and empty rooms. The owner had not furnished the house yet, if he was planning to at all.

"This is pretty weird," Ahiru said as they came back to the front. "If he bought this house several months ago, why hasn't he done anything with it? It's nice!"

"Weird, but not criminal," Autor sighed, pushing up his glasses. "Let's go."

They trooped back to the car and climbed inside. As Kirsch started the engine, something caught Ahiru's attention out of the corner of her eye. She blinked and looked up at the house. Had the curtain on the top floor fluttered? Maybe it was her imagination; it was holding still now. She frowned, leaning back against the seat.

Autor looked to her. "Is something wrong?" he asked in concern.

Ahiru shook her head. "I'm not sure," she said. "I thought I saw the curtain moving up there, but . . ."

Everyone else turned to look as well. "If it was moving, it isn't now," Kirsch frowned.

"Do you think someone is here after all?" Charon asked.

"I don't know." Kirsch studied the attic window. "Someone might be here guarding the merchandise, or even arranging it. Or just innocently planning what furniture to get."

"Or being held prisoner?" Ahiru said quietly.

The others looked to her.

"I don't think they would keep Fakir here," Autor said. "It's more likely they would want him right with them, wherever they are."

"I agree," Kirsch nodded. "Still, I'd feel better if there was someone to watch this house while we check the other one."

"Are you going to call the state police?" Ahiru exclaimed.

"I don't know," Kirsch frowned. "There's really not enough evidence for it. And they might only try to keep us from driving to the other location." He started the engine and moved the car slowly down the street and around the corner out of sight. Then he stopped again.

"I'm thinking maybe I should stay here, just for a few minutes, while you drive to the other house," he announced.

Charon rocked back in surprise. "What if there's trouble?"

"If there's trouble on your end, you'd better call the state police. If there's trouble on mine, well . . ." Kirsch started to open the door. "We'll deal with that later."

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Charon. "Here's the address and the directions," he said. "Do you think you can find it?"

"Just as well as you could," Charon said.

"Good." Kirsch climbed out and stood on the road. "I'll find a way to double-back without being seen. And all of you, be careful." He shut the door as quietly as he could.

Charon moved into the driver's seat. "Be safe," he muttered under his breath. He started the engine as Kirsch slipped out of sight.

Ahiru continued to look for him as they began to drive away. "I hope he won't get caught," she worried.

"There's probably no one even there," Autor said. "And if there's one person, he probably won't bother coming outside. If he does, Detective Kirsch should be able to handle him."

He prayed that was the truth.

xxxx

It took several confused attempts and one count of becoming lost before at last Charon found the correct street in a much more recent and fancy neighborhood. The houses here were both more modern and larger than on the street from which they had come. The yards sprawled for meters, perfectly green and well kept. And most properties were behind strong and determined gates.

"This certainly looks more like the kind of neighborhood where a successful businessman would want to make a purchase," Autor commented.

Ahiru was in awe. "They're all so big!" she exclaimed. But then a problem occurred to her and she frowned. "How will we even see anything, though? We won't be able to get close enough!"

"We'll think of something," Autor returned. "We've come too far to be defeated here."

"We might be defeated before we've begun," Charon said. "We don't know that there's anything here to see."

By now the sun had gone down. Both house lights and streetlights were starting to come on, illuminating the area. Charon leaned forward, hoping that it would not be difficult to see the addresses.

Suddenly Ahiru cried out. Charon nearly slammed on the brakes. "What is it?" he exclaimed. "Do you see it?"

"Yeah!" Ahiru said, staring out her window. "And I see Fakir! I know it's him!"

Now Charon pulled over to the curb, hope forming again. "Where is he?" he demanded.

Autor was looking to where Ahiru was transfixed. "Over there," he said, "in a lower window of that mansion. I think Ahiru's right; it definitely looked like Fakir, even from this distance."

Charon visually searched the area. "I don't see anyone now," he said with a frown.

He had no sooner spoken when another form stepped into the light of the window. This one raised Charon's eyebrows and then swiftly narrowed them. "That man looks familiar," he noted darkly.

"Who is he?" Autor asked.

"Unless I miss my guess, he's the very man on record for owning that house—Bernhard Schuhmacher." Charon continued to watch him with suspicious eyes. "He's talking to someone in there, maybe even Fakir."

"Isn't this enough to take to the police?" Autor exclaimed. "At least they should come on suspicion of kidnapping."

"They should," Charon said. "And we're going to try to make that happen." He shook his head. "I've never been interested in those pocket phones, but it would certainly be useful to have one right now. We have to keep watch on the house, yet the police have to be called."

"I could try to find a phone!" Ahiru volunteered. "I can run fast! Or maybe someone on this street would help!"

"The problem is, how do we know there aren't other gang members inhabiting some of these houses?" Charon gripped the steering wheel, turning the problem over and over in his mind. At last he eased the car back enough that it would hopefully not be seen from the house in question. He parked and started to undo his safety belt.

"I'm going to try the house across the street," he said. "It's in full-view of the car. If something goes wrong . . ." He drew a heavy, conflicted breath. "You'll need to try a house on another street."

Autor nodded. "Alright then. And in case something does go wrong, maybe we should have the car keys here, so that they won't fall into the wrong hands."

Charon handed them to him. "I'm sure it will be fine," he said. "But this is just in case." He looked from Autor to Ahiru. "Don't do anything impulsive!"

"We won't," Autor said.

"Unless there's extenuating circumstances," Ahiru added.

Charon started to get out of the car. "And there had better not be," he said.

Shutting the door, he walked across the street.


	21. Dinner

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Fakir's day had been long and strange.

For the most part he had been left alone to continue healing—a process that was, thankfully, coming along well. His head no longer put him in mind of a tom-tom drum. The dizziness seemed to be entirely gone, too.

He had spent most of the day pacing and thinking. He had gone over countless scenarios in his mind of what might happen that night and what he might do to get out of it, but none of them seemed especially favorable. They were all too risky and would likely end with him receiving a bullet in his brain. In the end, he supposed, he would not really know what he could maybe do until the robbery was in progress. The problem was, by then it might be too late.

It was towards evening when the door suddenly opened. He looked up with a start, expecting to see Anton or that woman. Instead, a heavyset man he did not know at all was standing there.

"Who are you?" he frowned.

"Just a businessman," the man smiled. "You may call me Mr. Schuhmacher."

Fakir raised an eyebrow. "You were talking to Anton last night in the hall," he said. The voice was recognizable.

"You were eavesdropping? Your audacity never stops, does it." Schuhmacher looked more amused than anything else.

"I wondered what was going on." Fakir stood his ground. "What does Anton want now?"

"_Anton_ doesn't want anything. He's not even here." Schuhmacher gestured to the hallway. "Why don't you come out and have dinner with me in the main hall?"

Fakir stared at him, both bewildered and suspicious. "What for?"

"Your food won't be poisoned, I can assure you of that," Schuhmacher chuckled. "I just want to talk with you about a business proposal. And quite frankly, your room is too small and I'm hungry."

Fakir was still on his guard. He could imagine what this 'business proposal' might consist of, particularly considering some of the words he had heard Schuhmacher and Anton exchanging. Schuhmacher was not willing to be pushed around by his brother. Maybe he even wanted to get Anton out of the way and lead the gang himself.

Still, it could be the loophole for which Fakir had been desperately searching. He was not about to pass it up.

"Okay," he said. He walked towards the door. "What are you having?"

Schuhmacher stepped aside, allowing Fakir to come into the corridor. "It's a veritable banquet, really," he said. "There's five kinds of dressing, six variety of potatoes, and three types of gravy. And for the centerpiece, roasted duck."

Fakir cringed. "I . . . don't think I'm ready for meat yet," he bluffed as they walked. "But I'll try some of the dressing and potatoes."

"Certainly. There's plenty of duck if you should change your mind."

Fakir was relieved that Schuhmacher did not question it.

"So, what do you think of my wonderful house?"

Fakir started. "Yours?" A flash of last night's conversation came back to him. Schuhmacher considered the house his even though Anton technically owned it. Albeit if the house was in Schuhmacher's name, he had to wonder just how Anton could own it at all, technically or not.

"I haven't seen enough of it to judge," he said then.

"True. That's a shame, really. Anton needn't have kept you cooped up in that one room. There's no escape from this house unless one of us wills it."

"What does that mean?" Fakir queried, suspicion coloring his tone.

Schuhmacher picked up on it. "You're very shrewd," he said. Opening the double-doors to the dining room, he gestured for Fakir to go in first. When Fakir did, Schuhmacher promptly followed, drawing the doors closed after him. "You realize I'm saying that I might be different from Anton," he said as he did so.

"Yeah," Fakir said. "But what's your price?"

He looked over the long and expensive table. The food was in the center, just as Schuhmacher had described. Seeing it and smelling it made him realize how nearly starved he felt. He tried to look away, however, from the plump duck in the middle.

"I could make it worth your while to write for me instead of Anton," Schuhmacher told him. "All you would need to do would be to write me into being the head of this organization. In turn, I would let you go. You could write further Stories for me from afar." He crossed to the table and began to fill a plate. "Neither you nor your loved ones would be in danger."

Fakir frowned. "How do you know I wouldn't call the police as soon as I got free?" he retorted. He moved to the other side of the table, beginning to fill a plate of his own.

"Because for one thing, if you weren't working for me, the alternative would be working for Anton," Schuhmacher said.

"And you think I'd feel some debt of gratitude towards you for getting me out of that mess," Fakir finished.

"Of course," Schuhmacher said. "There's no reason why you shouldn't."

"I have a hard time believing that there's really no catch at all to your idea," Fakir countered. "It sounds too good to be true."

"There is no catch," Schuhmacher said. "I win people with honey, not vinegar."

"You're pretty trusting then," Fakir said. "I could find a way to betray you at any time if I wanted out."

"It's the chance I'd have to take," Schuhmacher said, spreading his hands.

Fakir really did not believe it. Schuhmacher was just as cunning as Anton, even if his methods were different. There had to be a catch somewhere. But for the time being, maybe it would be better for Fakir to pretend that he thought this was true.

He sat down. "It is a good deal," he admitted. "There's just one problem." He took a bite of the potato and cheese casserole, savoring it in his mouth. "I'm not a criminal."

"Yes, that is a problem Anton's been having with you," Schuhmacher said. He began to carve the duck. "He thinks he can intimidate you into doing whatever he wants."

"It's not the methods; it's the principle of it," Fakir said. "It's not in my nature to hurt people like that. I can't do it."

"Oh, everyone has their price," Schuhmacher replied. "Yours is your loved ones." He placed two large slices of duck on his plate.

Fakir averted his gaze to the gravy. "They wouldn't want me to do it, either," he said. "I'd be betraying them. I'd be betraying my cousin, who died trying to save me from this mess."

Schuhmacher chuckled under his breath. Fakir bristled, but clenched his teeth and tried to concentrate on the food. Blowing his top would not serve any purpose whatsoever.

"So," Schuhmacher said, his mouth filled with food, "what do you think you're going to do to get yourself out of this little predicament?"

Fakir hesitated. Was Schuhmacher hoping Fakir would tell what he had in mind for tonight? Surely he did not think Fakir would be trusting and naïve like that.

"Do you really think I'd tell you my plans?" he said.

"No," Schuhmacher said amiably. "It's friendly dinner conversation."

"Oh sure, talking about making you leader and becoming a wanted man is friendly dinner conversation," Fakir retorted.

"My boy, the world at large doesn't even believe in Story-Spinners," Schuhmacher declared. Fakir shoveled more food in his mouth to keep from making a derogatory comment about being called 'my boy'. "They're a thing of legend, a myth. You wouldn't be a wanted man. No one would even believe you'd written anything into coming true!"

"I wouldn't believe it, either," Fakir said. "Especially the part about being a crook. Even if the police didn't believe I was one, I'd feel like one. I'd be tainted."

"You really have integrity, don't you." Schuhmacher continued to eat, unabashed.

"I like to think so, yeah." Fakir tried one of the kinds of dressing. "How would I even write you into being the leader? Wouldn't I have to kill Anton off or something?"

"That would be one possibility," Schuhmacher said. "Or you could have him arrested and imprisoned for life, but that could cause the police to also find and shut down my version of the gang. Unless you wrote a solution to that too."

"You're wasting your breath." Fakir reached for the ice water pitcher and a glass. "I'm not going to do some sneaky, underhanded, even murderous thing, even to Anton. And I'm really not going to do it in order to put another criminal on the throne." He began to pour. "Don't you have any loyalty to your own family at all?"

"Neither of us do, as I'm sure you can imagine," Schuhmacher said.

"Oh yeah, I can imagine," Fakir said. "I've been finding out a lot of things I'd have been really happy to have never known."

For a moment he continued to eat. Then, as though coming from deep contemplation he said, "So if I turn you down I'm back to dealing with Anton's threats."

"That's an apropos way of putting it, yes," Schuhmacher said. "Only I hate to think of giving up my chance at obtaining his level of power."

Fakir shook his head. "Power isn't all that great," he said. "And when you use it just to be selfish, it usually ends up backfiring."

"I didn't invite you here for a lecture, Fakir." Schuhmacher bit off a piece of meat. "So there isn't any way of swaying you? Even though Ahiru has been badly beaten and is still at Anton's mercy? Which is nonexistent. I was under the impression that you'd told Anton you'd write for him because of that."

"I didn't say I wouldn't write for him," Fakir said. "But I don't want some long-term commitment to any crook. All I want is for Ahiru to be safe."

"You know he won't let her go, I hope," Schuhmacher said. "As long as he has her, he can continue manipulating you."

"I figured as much." Fakir looked down, studying his plate. "Maybe I should think over what you've said after all," he said.

"Of course you should," Schuhmacher smiled. "Once you would write me into being the leader, I would permit you to go rescue little Ahiru."

It would have looked suspicious to have flat-out jumped at Schuhmacher's suggestion at the very first. Fakir really did not want to end up committed in a mess like that, either. Both situations made him feel ill. But he wondered which would be easier to escape from—Anton's plan or Schuhmacher's. Either way, he could not actually commit any crimes. He knew that for a surety. However, if he did not already know that Ahiru could not really be a prisoner, it would be extremely tempting to pretend to help Schuhmacher after his last statement.

"If I did end up deciding to help you out, would I still have to write for Anton tonight?" he asked.

"It would be nice to have the riches that will be coming in tonight," Schuhmacher said.

Fakir nodded, mostly to himself. In that case, it really would not help things for him to pretend to commit to Schuhmacher's ideas. He would still have to figure out how to outsmart Anton. He was hoping, maybe against hope, to bring things to a close tonight.

"And if you fail, Anton plans to get rid of you," Schuhmacher said. "But you probably know that from your little eavesdropping session last night."

"Yeah." Fakir chewed slowly. "Give me until after the robbery tonight to decide for sure about your offer," he said. "I'm still trying to figure out if there's some way I can save Ahiru without being a crook."

"Fair enough," Schuhmacher said. "Only if something goes wrong, you might end up dead on the spot. Think about that."

Fakir had. Part of the reason he had led Schuhmacher into this charade was to find out if he felt the same as to what Anton's intentions were. Of course, this could be a persuasion technique of his. But Fakir would be inclined to believe that it was indeed what might be Anton's reaction.

Either that or some extreme torture, which Anton had indicated the previous night.

The sound of a car outside caused him to glance towards the window. Schuhmacher gave no sign of concern, but Fakir had to wonder what was going on out there. The vehicle sounded very close. Maybe Anton was coming back.

"Hey," he said. "What will happen if Anton comes and finds you've let me out?"

Schuhmacher laughed and shrugged. "He'll be angry," he said. "Maybe we'll argue a bit. It won't be a serious matter."

"It'd better not be," Fakir said. "I don't want to end up in trouble for it."

"Oh, you won't, I can assure you of that," Schuhmacher said. "If Anton gets angry with anyone, he'll get angry with me."

"Good." Fakir frowned. "But won't he suspect something's up? Surely you don't want him to get any ideas that you're looking to usurp him."

"If you don't say anything, there shouldn't be any problem," Schuhmacher replied. "I don't intend to reveal the truth about our get-together. I'll tell him I thought you needed your strength up to its fullest for tonight and that you would be healthier if you got out of that room. He already knows that I think putting you under room arrest was ridiculous."

_Room arrest._ That was a good way to put it, alright.

It still sounded like an engine was running. Fakir leaned back, trying to casually glance out the window. He could see the front of the car, and its headlights, but nothing more. He stood, wandering closer to the glass. The vehicle was outside and to the right of the front gates. And it looked like the driver had no intention of coming inside.

"You really shouldn't be standing by the window," Schuhmacher scolded. "Someone might see and recognize you."

Fakir grunted. "Would anyone recognize me?" he retorted. "The window's not that close to the street."

"Don't take any chances!" Schuhmacher said. "Come away, come away!"

Fakir went back to the table and sat down. The car's engine had been cut now, yet the automobile was still sitting there. Who in the world was inside? Should he point it out to his host? Or should he just let it go? Maybe it was even the police, having tracked him here. That was surely just a fantastic, untrue dream. Still, he could not quell the hope. He would mention nothing, especially since Schuhmacher had not seemed to notice the sound of the engine.

They ate in silence for several minutes. But then Schuhmacher seemed to grow restless. He stood, moving to the window himself.

"It's strange that Anton isn't back," he mused. "Who knows, maybe we'll be able to return you to your room without him ever even knowing you were out."

"Then you _are_ worried about what he'll do," Fakir said.

"Of course not. I only thought you were," Schuhmacher said dismissively. "Oh, are you sure you don't want any of the duck?"

Fakir's stomach knotted. "Yeah," he said. "I'm sure."

Schuhmacher attacked the fowl with the knife again. "Suit yourself, my boy."

"Don't call me your boy," Fakir muttered.

xxxx

Kirsch had been watching the white house for what seemed ages before he caught a glimpse of activity. After the twilight had entirely given way to the night, a beam of light flashed inside the uppermost window. It came once, twice, then was gone.

He came to attention from where he was positioned behind a tree across the street. Someone _was_ in there! Maybe they were doing something with the crates, or planning to. It could all be innocent, he told himself. It might even just involve furniture. But, either because of the sudden excitement of the hunt or because he longed for a decent lead, he could not make himself fully think that.

He slipped closer to the abode, keeping to the shadows. As he reached the other side of the street, the light arrived at the bottom floor and played over the window Autor had looked through earlier. The curtain swayed and was pulled shut, eliminating the thin crack.

Without warning the front door opened and a tall, stern man stepped out. He guided the door closed behind him and then turned to lock it before straightening and walking from under the small, pillared roof. The flashlight he had been using he stuck in his pocket.

Kirsch debated within himself. To try to determine if this man was in the gang he had to catch him off-guard. Maybe if he asked a strange question.

"Is Fakir with you?" he blurted, still concealed behind a bush.

The man stiffened, his eyes widened in shock. "Who's there?" he demanded, whirling to look at one side, then another.

"Anton sent me to relieve you," Kirsch continued.

Now the gang suspect had pinpointed Kirsch's direction and was heading towards him. "You're lying," he said.

"Oh? And how do you know that?" Kirsch returned.

"You should know that . . ." The stranger stiffened, seeming to realize that he had said too much.

Kirsch smirked to himself. "This is the police," he intoned. "You're under arrest." He stepped out from the bush.

The man stared at him in shock, his mouth working without any sound coming out. Abruptly he turned, fleeing down the street.

Kirsch followed in hot pursuit, soon lunging and tackling the criminal to the ground. Even as his prisoner struggled and yelled, squirming in his grasp, Kirsch wrenched the arms around and tied them in place with his necktie. As a member of the municipal police, he only had authority to make citizen's arrests and was not permitted to carry handcuffs. But this guy did not need to know that. Right now, Kirsch had the upper hand.

"Okay," Kirsch said. "I think it's time for you to talk. You know about Anton. What's going on at this house? It's owned by the businessman Bernhard Schuhmacher. What does he have to do with Anton Schuster?"

His captive sneered at him. "Don't think you're going to get anything out of me," he said. "I'm not talking."

"Anton's gang is an uncooperative bunch," Kirsch said. "But we'll find out what we want to know. I'm sure that now I have more than enough to get hold of a search warrant." He straddled the prisoner and took out his cellphone, quickly dialing the number of the state police. The criminal fought to get up, but in vain.

It only took a moment for Kirsch to explain what was going on to the policeman who answered the phone. He was promised a squad car would arrive in minutes, and that a search warrant would be sought for the house. He hung up, satisfied.

The man continued to be unwilling to offer information, no matter what Kirsch asked. Kirsch delivered him to the state police moments later, nodding in approval as they loaded him into the squad car.

"That felt good," Kirsch said to himself. "I've found my calling in life."

xxxx

Ahiru shifted anxiously as Charon crossed the street and knocked on the door of the house directly across from them. She was looking back and forth between homes, waiting to see if someone would answer for Charon and if Fakir would reappear at the window.

Autor shook his head. "How about you watch one location and I'll watch the other?" he said.

Ahiru froze. "I guess I'm really jumpy," she said. "But we're so close again to finding Fakir and . . ."

Autor seized her arm. "Wait! A car is coming. And . . ." He leaned forward to peer at the oncoming vehicle more closely. He gasped in amazement. "It's the car we were following all afternoon! I recognize the license number!"

Ahiru jerked. "Eh?" She watched as it drew closer. "It's coming here!"

Autor was already grabbing the fleece throw from the passenger seat. "We have to make ourselves scarce," he said. "They can't see we're in here, if they haven't already."

Ahiru gasped. "What do we do? What do we do?" she yelped. "How can they not see us?"

Autor threw the soft covering over her head. "Curl up completely on the seat and don't move!" he instructed. He then followed his own advice and burrowed under it.

Swallowing hard, Ahiru did likewise. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and she had the distinct feeling that the stubborn piece of hair on her head was tickling Autor's nose, but she forced herself to lay still. Outside, the other car was stopping and the doors were opening.

"What's that car doing here?" they could hear one man saying.

"It doesn't look like anyone's inside. Maybe they already went in," said the second.

"Are you sure there's no one in there? I could have sworn I saw something move." The first started to step towards the rental car.

"It's your imagination," the second retorted. "We need to get inside; Bernhard's going to be wondering where we've been."

Autor reached up, trying to carefully move the piece of hair away from his nose without causing a movement to the throw that would be visible from the outside.

"If that crazy car hadn't been following us, we could have got back a lot sooner. And hey!" Ahiru's eyes widened to twice their size. "This looks a lot like that car." He tried the driver's door. "It's locked!"

"And there's no one inside," the second told him. "Look, if you really think it's the same car, that's all the more reason we've got to get to the house. Maybe we need to warn Bernhard to get the kid out of there."

The first was still trying the handles of the other doors. "They're all locked," he growled. "Whoever's been driving this car might be trying to get into the house!" He stepped away. "Come on, let's hurry."

The footsteps faded from near the car. The duo was jogging to the heavy, wrought iron gates. One of them apparently pushed a button, as there came a buzzing sound. Then the noise cleared as a voice spoke through the intercom. "Who is it?"

"It's us—Einhard and Clemens. And we've got some possibly bad news."

There was another buzz and, with a mechanical whirr, the gates began to swing open. "Get inside," the voice barked. "Now!"

The two did exactly that. The gates began to close behind them.

Autor cautiously peeked up from under the throw. "They might try to get Fakir out of the house before the police have a chance to come," he exclaimed. "Maybe they have a secret way out through a tunnel on the property."

Ahiru rose up as well. "What are we going to do?" she cried.

Autor glanced back at the house across the street. No one was out; Charon had either gotten inside to make the call or he had gone to try a different house.

"I hate to say it," he said, "but this seems to be extenuating circumstances. Come on." He opened the door and hurried to the gates, keeping himself bent over and low.

He could only pray that this was not a mistake and that he was not leading Ahiru into another certain disaster. If he brought about another tragedy from his actions . . . well, he was not sure what he would ever do. Or what anyone else would.

Ahiru scrambled after him, her heart racing. She was praying the same thing as Autor—and also that Charon would suspect what had happened when he returned and found them absent.

They barely slipped through the gates before they clanged shut.


	22. Tunnels

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Fakir and Schuhmacher were still eating when they heard the front doors burst open and two men yelling for Schuhmacher. Fakir turned to look at his host, his eyes narrowed.

"What's that all about?" he wanted to know.

Schuhmacher wiped his mouth with a large napkin and stood, crossing to the doors. "I can't imagine," he said. "They sound upset." He thrust open the doors. "Here now, what's all this?" he demanded. "I was just having dinner."

The two guys hurried to the doorway. "There's a car outside," one of them announced.

"It was following us all afternoon," added the other. "I thought we'd lost it!"

Fakir stared at them. Was that the car he had caught a glimpse of? And did that mean it really might contain allies? His heart gathered speed.

Schuhmacher frowned, not sure what to think. "And now it's here, you say," he said. "What kind of car is it?"

"Just a simple dark-blue sedan," said the second. "It was from a rental agency."

"There wasn't anyone in it," the first added. "We thought they might be trying to get inside. Maybe you need to send the kid on his way."

"And risk running right into these possible intruders? Nonsense." Schuhmacher started to walk back to the table. "They won't be able to get into the house. Fakir is safest where he is right now. We'll go when we're supposed to go to get to the docks.

"But where is Anton anyway?" he went on. "He should have got back by now."

"We don't know anything about that," said the second. "You should call him and make sure everything's going alright."

"I can't do that!" Schuhmacher exclaimed. "If something is wrong, and my name and number appear on his phone, I could be connected with this gang. Right now no one knows I'm part of it. I'm supposed to be a respectable businessman. Anyway, you know Anton doesn't like to be bothered."

"Yeah, we know, but . . ." The first man trailed off, staring into the dining room. "What do you have the kid in here for?" he exclaimed. "You know Anton wanted him kept locked up!"

"That's ridiculous," Schuhmacher scoffed. "He can't get out of the house any more than anyone can get in. There's no point in cooping him in one little room."

"Still, Anton's going to be furious if he finds out," the man replied, shaking his head.

"Well, let's hope he won't," Schuhmacher said with a false smile. The venom inside it was all too obvious. The two men backed off.

Fakir sampled some more of the food. "So you're really not going to do anything about this," he said.

"The security system is on," Schuhmacher said. "If anyone tries to get into the house, we'll know it." He shoveled more food into his mouth.

Fakir did not ask further questions. It seemed strange to him if Schuhmacher was not even going to have men search the grounds, but if he was not planning on it Fakir certainly would not be the one to suggest it.

He had to wonder, however, if the security system was really the only detainment the possible intruders would encounter.

xxxx

Now that Ahiru and Autor were on the other side of the gates, inside the spacious grounds, everything seemed overwhelming. Ahiru gazed ahead at the house, awestruck.

"It's so big," she whispered. But then, snapping back to herself, she looked to Autor. "It doesn't look like anything's going on in there. What if they don't do anything and we're stuck in here?"

Autor glanced around the grounds. "Don't panic," he said. "If Charon called the police, they'll be here soon. Surely we'd be able to get out then."

"I guess so." Ahiru bit her lip. "If they're going to get Fakir out through some secret place, are we going to look all over and see if we can find it?"

"Probably. But we need to be careful," Autor said. "They very likely have high security. Alarms could go off at any time."

"What are you two doing in there?"

Both teens jumped a mile. They whirled, coming face-to-face with a stunned Charon on the other side of the gate.

"We're sorry!" Ahiru said, her voice hushed. "Those guys we were following came here and they saw our car and they were talking about getting Fakir out. And we thought maybe they'd go through some hidden passage before the police could come and . . . !"

"And you felt you had to go through and try to stop it," Charon finished.

"Not necessarily," Autor said. "Our last attempt to barge in and try to stop them utterly failed. But if nothing else, if we could find out where they're planning to go . . ."

Charon massaged the bridge of his nose. "Do what you must," he said heavily. "The police are coming. I'm praying it won't take too long."

"We'll be careful, Charon!" Ahiru tried to assure him.

Charon sighed. "I know you will." He stepped back. "Someone could see you at any time. Don't let your guard down for a minute!"

"We'll keep to the shadows," Autor said. "The moment we learn anything, we'll come back and report it to you if at all possible."

He took Ahiru's wrist, guiding her into the darkness of the thick trees around the yard. Charon watched as they snuck around the side of the manor, his stomach turning gymnastics.

"And what if it isn't possible?" he muttered under his breath. "You were keeping to the shadows when you were caught before."

At the first window they came to, Autor began to cautiously inch upward until he could see a smidgen of what was happening in the room. He stiffened in surprised delight. "Ahiru, it's Fakir!" he whispered. "He's sitting at a long table, eating."

Immediately Ahiru popped up to join him. "He is!" she squealed, much too loudly. "Oh, he's okay! It looks like they're feeding him really good!"

Autor reached to press the hair down on her head. "Be quiet," he said, still keeping his voice low. "And watch out; that businessman we've been tracking is sitting there also. He'll see us if he looks up."

Ahiru ducked below the window. "It doesn't look like they're moving him," she said. "What now?"

Autor pondered. "Let's wait here a few minutes and see what seems to be happening," he said at last. "When the police come, they'll surely try to move Fakir then."

Ahiru nodded. "Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if we could get Fakir now and he wouldn't have to go to that third robbery!" she exclaimed.

It was a rhetorical statement. Of course it would be, and Autor had hope that perhaps they really could stop it, but he was not going to fully depend on it. Before the night was out, they still might end up at the Port of Hamburg.

Suddenly Ahiru started, something clicking in her mind. "Wait a minute!" she gasped. "What's that thing on the table? Is it . . ." She rose up again. "It is!" she wailed in a whisper. "It's a bird!"

Autor pulled her away once more. "Fakir isn't eating any," he said. "He seems to be eating everything except that."

Ahiru slumped under the window, crossing her arms. "He'd better be!" she said.

"You know Fakir hasn't eaten any fowl since you came along," Autor said. He cleared his throat. "I haven't, either," he added in a near-mutter. For both of them, it would feel far too uncomfortable, even like a betrayal, despite the fact that Ahiru was no longer a bird.

Ahiru looked up at him. "Really?" she said. "You too?"

"Yes," Autor said. "The thought of it makes me rather ill, actually."

She beamed. "Thank you, Autor. You're wonderful."

Autor went red. But at the sound of a car pulling up, he jerked to attention. "The police are here," he said, noting the blue-and-white vehicle and the currently dimmed lights affixed on top. As the officers started to get out Charon hurried over to them, presumably explaining the situation with Autor and Ahiru. They nodded, glancing towards the property.

"I think they see us," Ahiru said. She gave a tentative wave.

The policeman looked to her, giving a slight nod before heading towards the gates. His partner hastened after him, arriving just as he pressed the button.

"What is it?" barked the same gruff voice.

"This is the police," the first officer replied. "We need to speak with you about an urgent matter."

There was a brief silence. "Come in," growled the voice.

Autor looked back to the window as the police came through the gates. "They didn't say what the matter is," he noted. "Maybe they're hoping that will keep the gang from making any sudden moves." He raised just enough to peer into the room. "But if they're hoping that, it's in vain. Schuhmacher is leaping up now and pulling Fakir up too. Now he's pushing Fakir towards the door into the hall."

"Oh!" Ahiru leaped up, staring into the room. "We have to find out where they're going!"

Autor nodded. "We'll circle around the house. Come on!" He hurried further to the back and turned the corner. Ahiru chased after him, desperately praying for their success and the gang's failure.

xxxx

The search warrant did not take long to obtain, after the gang member had been brought in and Kirsch had made his statement. Soon the state police were back at the old house, knocking on the door and ordering anyone inside to let them in.

Kirsch had been allowed to accompany them, for which he was grateful. He lingered behind them and to the side as they gathered around the door. If it should suddenly burst open, he would be ready.

But there was no answer to the detectives' calls, and after a moment longer they kicked the door in and entered. No one was in sight. Frowning, they moved to the stacks of crates in the living room.

One of them turned a box on every possible side before discovering what they needed to see. "Look at this!" he exclaimed. "It's the name of a company robbed here in Hamburg several weeks ago!"

Kirsch's eyes lit up. "This should be enough to get a warrant out on Schuhmacher's arrest, shouldn't it?"

The second detective nodded. "It's quite an intricate set-up they've had going on," he said. "It's time we brought it all to an end." After examining several other crates, he took out his cellphone.

Kirsch wandered to the doorway to peer into the next room. More crates were piled in there. He advanced to find the name stamped on them.

All the while his thoughts were turning over in concern. There had still been no word from Charon and the kids. What on earth had happened? What kind of trouble could they have gotten into?

He could not help wondering if he should have stayed with them. But someone had needed to be at this house too. The inadvertent words about Anton from the criminal at this house were helping to tie Schuhmacher in with the gang, as Kirsch had hoped.

One of the detectives came to the doorway and looked in on him. "We've had another lucky break," he announced.

Kirsch started and looked up. "What's that?" he queried in surprise.

"There's already a warrant out for Schuhmacher on suspicion of kidnapping. That abducted boy's friends reported seeing him in the window at a place in a fancier part of town." The man smiled, seeing Kirsch's expression changing to excitement. "The police are out there now checking into it."

"And his friends are alright?" Kirsch asked. "The father too?"

"He made the call," was the reply. "The gang probably has some more tricks up their sleeves, but I'm holding out hope that we'll get this boy back tonight."

Kirsch nodded. "Me too," he said fervently. "It's past time for it."

xxxx

Fakir was not pleased to be rushed down the long corridor and then through a large library into yet another hall. "Where are we going?" he demanded. "We're both going to get indigestion!"

"I'm going to get you out of here," Schuhmacher retorted. "Apparently I made a mistake; there was more going on than I even considered." He did not stop to look back at the sound of the doorbell. Someone else would get that, and he intended to have Fakir out of the house by then.

"So what am I supposed to do?" Fakir shot back. He continued to hurry along, not that he had much choice with Schuhmacher shoving him all the way.

"There will be men who will explain it to you," Schuhmacher told him. "I may need to stay here to try to cover up whatever this is about."

Fakir's lips curled in a sneer. "Maybe you can't," he said. "Maybe someone's on to you."

"Well, if they are, it had better not be through your doing," Schuhmacher snapped.

"When would I have had the chance to do anything?" Fakir countered.

Schuhmacher pushed him into a back den and followed, shutting the door behind them. "How should I know? Maybe you carved something in your mashed potatoes when I wasn't looking." He dragged Fakir across the room and over to the fireplace. Upon pressing in a particular brick, he stepped back as the entire structure swung aside to reveal a tunnel. He pulled Fakir inside.

"This leads to a guesthouse in the backyard," he said as he began walking, his hand tightly curled around Fakir's wrist. In his other hand he gripped a flashlight. "When we come up, there will be another passageway to take inside there. It will lead to a vacant field off the property. We keep a car stashed there in an old shed."

"That's convenient," Fakir grunted. He gritted his teeth, longing to pry the thick hand away from his arm. That was going to leave a mark.

"Indeed it is," Schuhmacher sneered. "And no one can find it unless they either examine the field or inside one of the houses. There is no way to spot it from the grounds of the property."

"Bully for you," Fakir said. "But do you really think that's going to stop the police?" As he saw it, there was no harm in trying to rattle the guy a bit. Maybe he would slip up and make a mistake.

"They don't have anything on me," Schuhmacher said. "There's no reason for them to stay around."

"Maybe you're wrong," Fakir said.

They came to a series of stone steps. Schuhmacher pulled him down, forcing him to hold onto the wall in lieu of a banister. But Fakir was not deterred. He made it to the bottom easily, continuing to talk.

"Just think about how the police have been around lately," he said. "They jumped on the first robbery pretty quick, and they were there to overturn the second. Why couldn't they have connected you with Anton's gang?"

Even in the dim light, it was starting to look like Schuhmacher was turning purple. "They couldn't have!" he exclaimed. "I've left no tracks. None at all!"

"I guess you thought changing your last name so it was different than Anton's was clever," Fakir said. "But they still both mean about the same thing. Maybe someone made the connection."

"_No one could have made the connection!"_ Schuhmacher boomed.

"Have it your way," Fakir said. "But at least now maybe you're thinking that you did something stupid."

By now they had arrived at another series of steps, these ones going up. Schuhmacher sprang up them faster than Fakir had thought possible. Fakir nearly stumbled on one, but managed to catch his balance.

They stopped at a wall shortly after coming to the landing of the stairs. Schuhmacher pressed on a stone block, pushing it inward and causing another panel to fly outward. He stepped through, giving the well-furnished room they were entering an inspective glance.

"Everything's in order," he announced.

"Did you think it wouldn't be?" Fakir said. "Face it, you're nervous."

Schuhmacher turned to face him, his nostrils flaring. "Shut up, you miserable brat!" he roared.

Fakir did not so much as flinch. "You're nervous, but I'm not," he said. "I'm not afraid of you."

"If you're not, you should be afraid of Anton," Schuhmacher responded.

"Like you are?" Fakir said as he was pulled across the room and into another secret tunnel.

Schuhmacher snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, boy. I'm not afraid of my own brother. Especially when I know I can overtake his empire and make it my own any time I wish."

"If you could, you wouldn't have needed to try to get me to help you," Fakir pointed out. "You're in a pretty big plight. You've got the police coming to check something out. And then you've also got Anton getting ticked off at you for not getting me out of here as soon as you should have. And by the way, weren't there supposed to be men waiting here to explain things to me?"

Schuhmacher did not slow down. "They must have taken a break," he said.

"Maybe they're making a break for it," Fakir said.

Schuhmacher refused to answer. He did not speak again until they came to a ladder nailed into the wall. Above it was a trapdoor.

"Climb," he ordered, finally releasing Fakir's sore wrist. "At the top, undo the latch and get out. I will be right behind you."

Fakir obeyed. Part of him wondered if there would be any chance _he_ could make a break for it after getting out. Schuhmacher did not seem to be armed—although Fakir could be wrong about that. But if Fakir was able to run without any hindrances, he was sure he could easily outrun the heavy man.

The cool night air washed over him as soon as he pushed up the trapdoor. He climbed out, whirling around instantly. Schuhmacher was indeed right behind him. But he was not out yet. Without warning Fakir kicked the trapdoor shut. The man gave a howl of anger from inside.

Fakir turned and fled, his heart pounding as he soared over the grass and weeds.

_I really am going to get indigestion,_ he thought to himself. _But if I can get away, it'll be worth it._

He avoided the shed altogether. It was possible that the men who had been supposed to be in the guesthouse were instead with the car. It would be stupid to try to tangle with them. And besides, Fakir had no idea how to drive anyway.

Would he make it? Was there any way he could get out of here and find his way to the police? He would be safe then, and maybe they would know how to get in touch with Ahiru and Charon. If they were alright, they would be looking for him. There was no doubt at all in his mind about that.

Was Schuhmacher running after him? It did not sound like anyone was behind him. Maybe Fakir was going too fast for him to keep up. Or maybe the trapdoor had smacked the guy on the head and he was lying dazed or unconscious on the tunnel floor.

Fakir would not be charged if Schuhmacher was badly hurt or even dead, would he? He was in a terrible situation, not knowing from one moment to the next what these ruthless monsters were going to do to him and his loved ones. And he did not even know what Schuhmacher had intended to do with him now. Take him to the docks? Run off with him in the hopes that Fakir would help him instead? Would he have forced Fakir to help him?

Fakir kept running, his thoughts coming in one long, frantic stream. The field just kept going on forever. Maybe he should turn and run another way. But which way would even take him back to the houses? He was completely turned around.

The gun in his face brought him to an abrupt halt. He swallowed hard, breathing heavily.

Anton Schuster was at the other end of the gun. He gave Fakir one of the eerily calm looks that disturbed him to no end.

"You've been quite busy tonight, haven't you, Fakir." He brought the weapon against Fakir's forehead, clicking off the safety at the same time. "Let's go, shall we?"

Fakir swore under his breath. "I hate you," he hissed.

"I'm not very fond of you, either," Anton said. "But for now, we'll both have to make do." He seized Fakir's arm. "Come."

Without a choice, Fakir went.

xxxx

Charon followed the police through the gates without their knowledge. Autor and Ahiru were roaming somewhere on the grounds. Fakir was somewhere in the house. And Charon wanted to know what was going to happen when the police asked their questions. There was no way he would stay by the car.

The man who opened the door for the officers looked like he could be the person on the intercom—gruff and unhappy with this whole development. He stood in the doorway, keeping his hand on the other door as a barrier to prevent the police from coming inside.

"What's this all about?" he demanded. "The master of the house is a very busy man."

"So we've heard," was the reply. "We have a warrant out for his arrest."

The man stood up straighter. "What are the charges?"

"Suspicion of kidnapping, accessory to criminal activity, and suspicion of robbery," the first policeman replied. "And anyone else in this house is subject to the same charges." Other than Fakir, of course. The police still thought of him as the victim in all of this. And it had been directly because of him that they had been able to arrest so many people during the second robbery. If anything, he was also being hailed as a hero.

Both of the officers and Charon all saw the man going slightly pale. But he recovered quickly. "I'm not sure if Mr. Schuhmacher is in right now," he said. "If you have a warrant, then feel free to come in and look for him."

"Thank you," the policeman nodded. As the door was opened wider, both he and his partner entered the house.

Charon lingered in the shadows, debating to himself. Fakir was likely not in the main part of the house by now. And Autor and Ahiru were on the grounds and in possible danger. He wanted to follow the officers in, announcing himself as the kidnapped boy's father, but should he go after Autor and Ahiru instead? He might even have a better chance of finding Fakir if he did.

There was no time for a lengthy debate with himself. He turned, walking with purpose towards the side of the house where the kids should appear if they were circling around.

There was no sign of them at first. He kept going, heading for the backyard. The snaking ivy clinging to the house and draping itself over several garden archways lined up one after the other to craft a sort of covering created a mysterious, eerie mood.

Could they have possibly found Fakir as that man tried to escape with him? Was there any chance that they had overpowered Schuhmacher and Fakir was now safe? No, that was too much to hope for. There had been no yelling, no sounds of a scuffle.

As he stepped out from the vines and into the backyard, he nearly collided with Ahiru. He reached out to steady her.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "Are you and Autor alright?"

Ahiru gave a vehement nod. "Yeah, we're fine!" she said. "But we found a guesthouse back here and when we looked through a window, that awful guy was dragging Fakir through it and into a door that popped open in the wall! We can't figure out where it goes!"

Charon stiffened. "Where's Autor?" he asked.

"He's looking around the house, trying to figure out how to get in or where the tunnel goes or something!" Ahiru said. "Where's the police?"

"Inside," Charon said. He hesitated for only a moment. "I'm going to go tell them what you saw. Stay here with Autor, but don't do anything foolish! Be careful!"

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "We will!" she said. "But we have to find Fakir! We just have to! He's so close!"

"I know," Charon said. He turned to rush back to the front of the house. "And every moment that goes by is critical."

He prayed they would not be too late.


	23. Finale

**Notes: Being that this is the last full-length chapter, the short epilogue is being posted immediately afterwards. Thank you for your interest! I hope you will enjoy the conclusion.**

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Anton's helicopter was parked nearby in the field. Fakir glowered at it as they approached. He hated it, he hated Anton, he hated everything about this wretched situation. Every time he hoped that maybe he was finally catching a break, something went wrong. Anton was always ahead of him and always managed to foil any ideas he had about getting away.

"Where have you been, anyway?" he snapped. "Your brother's been wondering what's up."

"That is none of your affair," Anton responded. He moved the gun level with Fakir's spine. "Get on board." As far as Fakir knew, the safety was still off.

Clenching his teeth, Fakir gripped the edges of the open doorway and hoisted his body into the aircraft. Anton followed almost immediately. Never allowing the gun to leave Fakir, he reached and adjusted some controls.

"Sit down!" he ordered.

Fakir was in no position to argue. Nor did he especially want to, if they were about to lift off. He eased himself into the nearest seat and affixed the safety belt.

Anton sat next to him. After pressing a button and pulling a lever, the helicopter began to rise by itself. Fakir stared.

"You've never seen anything work on autopilot before, have you?" Anton remarked. "Of course, coming from such a backwoods town, when would you have ever had the chance?"

Fakir glowered. "You make it sound like Kinkan Town is full of idiots," he said.

"I had thought they produced some intelligent people, since it's the legendary hub of the Story-Spinners, but considering all the trouble I've had with you I wonder if that's true." Anton trained the gun on Fakir's face. "If I didn't know better I'd say you have a deathwish."

"I want to live," Fakir growled. "I just don't want to help you."

"And here I thought you cared about Ahiru and Charon." Anton's expression darkened. "You're only concerned with yourself."

Fakir's willpower frayed and broke. "I know you've been lying to me," he retorted. "That girl I talked to isn't Ahiru."

The only change in Anton's visage was an almost imperceptive widening of his eyes. "She isn't?" he said.

"I led her into a trap to test her," Fakir said. "She would never, _ever_ eat duck."

The gun shook in Anton's hand for a moment before he steadied it. The fury and tension in the air was almost tangible.

"You've been bluffing all along," Fakir went on. "You really didn't know where Ahiru and Charon were after the first heist. You came up with that story about testing me and having Ahiru captive and Charon being shot. I bet she and Charon are just fine right now, except for worrying about me. And even if you say they aren't, I won't believe you now."

"I actually was testing you, Fakir," Anton said, his tones frighteningly cool. "But it's true that by that point my idiot sniper was no longer following your loved ones. I still have no idea where they are."

He gave a tight, chilling smile. "I see I've been wrong about you, Fakir. I thought I had finally gotten through to you. Instead you've been more devious and clever than I had even imagined possible. Now I'm certain that you were responsible for getting the police to stop the second robbery. I would like to know exactly how you did it."

"You can wonder about it," Fakir said. "I'm not going to let you in on all of my secrets."

"I expected that from you," Anton said. "It's strange. In spite of all the police forces that have tried and failed to collapse my empire, a fifteen-year-old boy came the closest to succeeding. I tip my hat to you, young Fakir."

By now they were above the city, steadily moving towards the Port of Hamburg. Fakir stared out the window at the sight below.

"Surely after all this you're not planning to go through with the third robbery," he said.

"That depends," Anton said. "It depends entirely on you, Fakir." He pressed the gun against Fakir's forehead. "Under threat of your life, you will write that the police suddenly have no memory of the investigation and that those arrested will be freed."

Fakir's heart beat faster. He could see the murder in Anton's eyes. The man was not kidding.

"Well?" Anton spoke. "What will it be?"

Fakir ran his tongue over his lips. He could not write what Anton wanted. But if he pretended to, even for a moment, would there be the slightest chance of catching Anton off-guard? He had to try; it might be his last hope. And maybe if he could stall, it would give the police time to find them and catch up.

"Give me some paper and a pen," he said at last.

Anton gave a knowing nod. "Good boy."

xxxx

Much to the criminals' horror, Charon ran into the house and found the police, informing them of what Autor and Ahiru had seen. The officers came to attention immediately, hastening out to the guesthouse and to the tunnel, whose location the teens pointed out. Before long they were all hurrying through the stone passageway.

"There's someone down here," one of the policemen said presently.

"Who?" Ahiru wailed. "Is it Fakir?"

"No." He knelt down beside a heavyset form. "It's Bernhard Schuhmacher. It looks like he's unconscious."

Even as he spoke, the body moved and groaned. Everyone tensed.

"This is the police," the officer said sternly. "Tell us what happened. Where's the kidnapped boy Fakir?"

Schuhmacher grunted. His eyes cracked open halfway, focusing on the beam from the policeman's flashlight. A sickly sneer came over his features.

"He went through the trapdoor into the field," he rasped. "He won't get far; someone's going to be waiting for him."

"Who?" Charon demanded before the officer could ask. "Tell us now!"

But Schuhmacher just managed a weak shrug and closed his eyes in pain.

The policeman pulled out his cellphone to call an ambulance. His partner shined his flashlight on the ladder and began to climb, pushing up the door upon reaching the top.

"There's a field alright," he said with a frown. "But I don't see anyone." He pulled himself out of the hole and stood on the grass. "There's an old shed over there. It doesn't look like it's in use."

"We should have a look," the first officer said as he hung up the phone. "And we should spread out and search the whole field."

Charon was already scaling the ladder. The policeman looked to him in alarm. "Sir, I can't let you go up there," he said.

Charon reached the top and climbed out. "With all due respect, I came to find my son," he said, looking back down at him. "And that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Ahiru gave a firm nod. "Us too!" she declared, scurrying up the ladder before the stunned man could protest. Autor promptly followed.

For the next agonizing moments they tore over the field, calling in desperation for Fakir. But there was no response. In the darkness he could be anywhere—running for his life, being held captive again, or even lying somewhere in the grass. In spite of themselves the most frightening and horrible thoughts were gathering and growing in their minds, taking precedence over other possibilities. When Autor suddenly cried out, they expected the worst.

"What is it?" Ahiru half-sobbed.

"Look at this!" Autor bent down, shining his flashlight over two long and thin strips of grass that were standing apart yet were parallel to each other. They were bent and matted down, as though something heavy had been placed on them.

"What could have made that?" Charon frowned.

"I don't know," Autor admitted. "A small aircraft, perhaps? There aren't any other areas like this around at all. The only direction the object could have gone is up."

The second policeman came on the scene in time to hear Autor's analysis. He leaned over, examining the sight himself.

"It was probably a helicopter," he said. He grabbed for his walkie-talkie. "I'm going to put out an all-points bulletin for all unidentified helicopters over Hamburg."

"What do you think happened?" Ahiru cried. "Where could they be going? Do you think Fakir is . . . that he's still . . ." She trailed off, unable to finish.

Charon pulled a strong arm around her shoulders. "He's stuck it out this long," he said. "I refuse to believe that he's dead now. He'll come back to us."

Autor nodded. "He's helped turn this entire area upsidedown," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's fighting tooth and nail for his freedom at this exact moment."

"He'd better not just be fighting," Ahiru whispered. "He'd better win."

She threw her arms around Charon's waist as the sound of the policeman's all-points bulletin filled their ears.

xxxx

Fakir gripped the quill pen between his clammy fingers. His other hand shook as he clutched the paper holder. The cold barrel of the revolver was still being pressed against his forehead, the safety off. If the movement of the helicopter suddenly jerked Anton, the trigger could get pulled. It was enough to make him nervous and agonized in spite of his resolve to not commit any crimes. He would not be found guilty under these circumstances, were he to do as Anton demanded. But he would consider himself weak.

He stared down at the paper, running over the possible sentences in his mind. What could he write that would stall this madness? He had worked as hard as he could to get the police ahead in the case. He did not want to ruin it now so that they would forget all that they had done and let the crooks go scot-free. Maybe he could delay by writing what would start to look like what Anton wanted, before suddenly finishing the sentence and changing its entire meaning.

Of course, he would have to be quite creative to do that and get off with his life. How long could he drag it out before Anton became suspicious? Considering the crime boss's current mood, probably no time at all.

"Write, Fakir."

Somehow it rattled him more for Anton to call him by his Christian name than if he had said anything else. Anton probably knew it, too. He always seemed to know to do what would shake someone up the most.

Fakir dipped the pen in the inkwell. The helicopter bumped, turning Fakir sheet-white. But Anton was unmoved. The gun held fast.

Fakir brought the pen to the paper. For some reason, it was a struggle even getting it there. Surely it was not just his own personal feelings at this point. The Story was getting a mind of its own again. It did not want Fakir to write any more than Fakir wanted to write. But with the deadly weapon pushed against his head, that was not much of a comfort.

"_The police . . . the police for- . . ."_

Fakir clenched his teeth. His hand rocked, nearly sending the pen to the floor.

And Anton was losing whatever shreds of patience he had left.

"I would strongly advise you to put aside all your foolish notions of justice and nobility and write," he said. "In fact, I order it. This is your last chance, Fakir. Don't throw your life away."

"I can't help it," Fakir hissed. "The Story won't write."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" Anton said.

"No," Fakir said. "But it's still the truth." He glared at the criminal kingpin. "I was told that my loved ones wouldn't be faulted for an actual backfire with a Story."

"If they were here, they would be," Anton said. "Particularly since I don't believe there is any backfire!" His eyes flickered. "I won't say it again. You have exactly one minute to write before I kill you."

Inwardly Fakir was stricken, his blood turning to ice. Outwardly he still glared.

"What's one more body, huh?" he said. "Is that your excuse? I guess if they caught you, you would get the highest possible sentence right now, so maybe it wouldn't make a difference. On the other hand, maybe even for a complete wretch like you there'd still be _some_ hope, if you don't kill a minor."

"I kill whoever must die," Anton said. "There have been others, younger than you."

Fakir was sickened. How could someone like that even live with himself? There could be no justification for this. Fakir considered killing acceptable only if in self-defense or the defense of others. Anton killed to collect more power and wealth.

"That shouldn't surprise me," Fakir snarled. "You're a monster! I just hope the police connect you with every one of their murders. And I hope you pay for each one a thousand times over."

He tried to steady the pen. He might as well try again. There was little else he could do, besides keeping up the frantic prayer for deliverance.

"_The police for- . . ."_

It was no use. The pen slipped from his fingers and to the floor. He nearly gagged. Even though he was not really going to write what Anton wanted, the Story was angry.

Suddenly his gaze fell upon the inkwell. Maybe there was still a sliver of hope, one last surprise he could enact. He just had to pray that it would only startle Anton enough for him to get the upper hand, not for it to result in the trigger being pulled.

"It's not working," he said. "Even if you won't believe it, it's the truth. The Story's mad. And it's not the only one!"

He yelled the last words as the same time he threw the inkwell at Anton's face. The man cried out, his hands flying up out of reflex to protect his eyes. The gun clattered to the floor. Fakir tossed the paper holder aside, diving for the weapon. Still wiping ink from his flesh, Anton sprang forward to snatch it first.

Fakir caught Anton's wrists, fighting to twist them up and away from the gun. Anton kicked out, hitting Fakir on his right knee. Fakir grimaced, desperate to keep his hold.

Again the helicopter swayed, more violent this time. Anton did not care, even as they tipped to the side. Instead he pushed and shoved. If he could not shoot Fakir dead, he would throw the boy out through the open doorway and let him fall to his end.

Fakir pushed and shoved right back. He was not going to die. He repeated that over and over to himself like a mantra. He was not going to die. He was going to be alright.

The helicopter banked to the right. Anton yelled as they slid dangerously close to the door. Outside, death loomed dark and cold in the form of a horrifying drop.

Fakir's heart raced as he struggled for dear life. _Oh God, is this how I'm going to go?_ he cried out in his mind. _The same way I killed Autor? Maybe I deserve that, but . . . I don't want to die! Please God, I don't want to die!_

Anton dragged him ever closer to the edge. He wanted to kill Fakir and live himself, but if that were not possible they would both die. He refused to perish in this frightening way while Fakir would survive. Sooner or later, everyone whom he could not bend to his will died. Fakir would be no exception.

xxxx

Officer Heintz listened with grim, narrowed eyes to the report being transmitted over his walkie-talkie. At his side, Charon, Ahiru, and Autor were frantic. He looked to them as he pulled the device away from his ear.

"There's an unidentified helicopter flying over the Port of Hamburg," he announced. "It's having some kind of trouble. Either it's experiencing a bad patch of turbulence, the pilot simply doesn't know what he's doing, or it's on autopilot and failing. At least, that's what the person reporting it thinks."

"Do you think that's Fakir?" Ahiru exclaimed.

"It could be," Officer Heintz said. "There's some officers closer to the docks who are going to investigate."

"We have to get there!" Ahiru declared. She looked up at Charon. "We _have_ to!"

Charon nodded. "It's the only possible lead we have. We're going there to see if that's Fakir." He looked the policeman in the eyes. "And we can't be deterred from that."

Officer Heintz watched as they turned and hurried back over the field towards the trapdoor. "I won't try," he said quietly. He hooked the walkie-talkie on his belt as he started after them. "But I will go along."

xxxx

Kirsch was already on his way to the mansion. By the time he arrived, courtesy of a squad car whose other occupants were also going there, Charon and the teens were rushing to their car.

Kirsch rolled down the window of the squad car and leaned out. "Hey, what's going on?" he called. "I thought I'd hear something from you hours ago."

"There's no time to explain!" Charon called back. "Fakir might be at the docks in a wayward helicopter." He took the keys back from Autor and unlocked the vehicle. He and the kids practically threw themselves inside.

"I'll come with you!" Kirsch declared.

"You might as well ride with us," the local detective in the squad car said to him. "We were coming here to see if we could help, but if that boy's at the docks we might be able to do more there than here."

Kirsch looked to him, grateful. "Then let's go," he said as Charon's car sped past. "Follow them!"

xxxx

Fakir did not think he had been in such a frightening ordeal before.

One minute he and Anton were battling inside the helicopter as it jumped and tipped.

The next they were plummeting towards the Port of Hamburg, free of the aircraft.

The cold night air whipped into Fakir's face. Was this how Autor had felt when Fakir had pushed him and the balcony broke? Had he felt the same numb, unreal sensation mixed with panic? Had he realized he was going to die?

Desperately Fakir threw up his hands, longing for them to catch on something. But there was nothing for them to catch.

Yet somehow, his fingers curled around one of the helicopter's runners anyway.

The boy started, opening his eyes. He had not fallen to his death. He was suspended high above the docks on a helicopter with a mind of its own.

But Anton was still holding onto him too. Fakir clenched his teeth. The extra weight was too much for him to handle.

The madman reached up with one strong hand, trying to pry Fakir's hand loose. Fakir swayed, his legs kicking in thin air as he tried to jerk and force Anton to stay away.

"Are you trying to get us both killed?" he yelled over the sound of the propellers.

"Yes," Anton hissed. "You have defied me for the last time. You have to die." Again he leaned over to pry Fakir's fingers off of the runner.

Instead the action caused him to lose his own balance. With a cry he slipped down, his arms unhooking from around Fakir's chest and waist.

Fakir stared, horror stabbing into his heart. It was Anton falling, but in his place Fakir saw Autor. Autor, who had trusted that he and Fakir would get out of the mess with Ahiru. Autor, who had already been hurt and betrayed by Fakir during their argument. Autor, who was falling to his death because of Fakir and could never be saved.

The loud splash and spray of water startled Fakir back to the present. He looked down in amazement. Anton was still alive. He flailed and sputtered, spitting out water as he swam wildly towards shore.

Fakir carefully reached up, maneuvering one leg over the runner. Then, as he wrapped it around the thing, he also hugged it with both arms. He could let himself fall too, he supposed. But he did not want to deal with Anton in the water. For the moment, he was free of the creep. He breathed a prayer of thanks.

The sounds of wailing sirens stunned him again. As he watched, a squad car drove up near the pier and two officers jumped out, hastening down the wooden planks just as Anton managed to reach the structure himself. They bent down, grasping his arms and hauling him out of the water as he struggled and protested. The glint of what must be handcuffs reached Fakir's vision.

He let out a deep breath. Anton was captured. He had wanted so badly to see it happen and now it had. He was truly free.

Now if he could just get off this thing.

It was heading towards the roof of a tall row of warehouses. Fakir glanced from it to him, judging the distance. He might not be a mathematical genius like Autor, but he could figure out some things like this just by looking. Slowly and carefully he uncurled his leg and unwrapped his arms, gripping the runner with his hands again. Then, at just the right moment, he jumped. He bent his legs, landing firmly on the roof.

At first he was slightly jarred from the leap. But then, slowly, he straightened and stumbled back.

For a moment he slumped against the nearby gable, breathing heavily and trying to gather his wits about him. He was alive. He had made it. He could come down and find the police and they would help him find Ahiru and Charon. Everything would be well.

His next breath caught in his throat. As well as it could be, with Autor gone. He slumped further against the gable, several pained tears trickling from his eyes.

Anton had fallen farther than Autor, yet he had hit the water instead of cruel, hard ground. A creep like that was still alive and Autor, who had never deserved death, had met his demise.

Fakir would never forgive himself for causing Autor's fall. And Ahiru would never be the same. She had been so full of life with both of her best friends rallied around her. Now, with one of them absent, she would always feel the hole. Fakir would too.

"I wish," Fakir rasped, turning his gaze to the starry Heavens, "I could have asked your forgiveness for that stupid argument. I can never think of being forgiven for pushing you to your death. I just wonder if Ahiru will forgive me for it."

She would try to reassure him that it had been an accident. Maybe even by now she knew the gang had premeditated it. But would some dark part of her that missed Autor so badly blame Fakir? Why shouldn't she? She was only human. And Fakir blamed himself. He blamed himself so thoroughly, in spite of knowing that the gang had set the whole thing up.

At last he pushed himself away from the wall, moving slowly towards the door leading into the building. He had to come down. If he did not, the police would come looking for him. And he did not want them to find him here, in anguish and despair.

xxxx

As Charon approached the docks and the circling helicopter came into view, Ahiru's heart caught in her throat.

"What if that really is the one and Fakir's up there?" she wailed. "What if that awful Anton guy is hurting him?"

"Try not to think of the worst," Autor said. "Maybe it isn't even the right one. Or maybe it is but everything's alright. Look, is that the police over there?" He pointed to flashing lights by a pier almost directly below the aircraft.

"It is," Charon said. He sped up, anxious to get over there. "And it looks like they're handcuffing someone."

It was difficult not to go over the speed limit in his haste to get to the scene and find out what was going on. Once they were close enough he parked and got out, hurrying over to the gathering. Ahiru and Autor were close behind him. And it was only a moment more before the squad car Kirsch was in pulled up in back of Charon's rental car. They promptly hastened to the group as well.

"What's happened here?" Charon called as they all drew close.

A policeman looked to him in triumph. "We just went fishing," he said with a grin, "and bagged the big one." He indicated the drenched man in handcuffs. "Meet Anton Schuster."

Many emotions crashed through Charon's heart. This was the monster who had orchestrated what had happened to Fakir. He had tried to force the boy to write for him. Who knew what unspeakable horrors Fakir had seen and heard in his presence!

But . . . for Anton to be here, and arrested . . . did that . . . could that . . . mean it was over at last? Did it mean Fakir was safe and he could return to them now?

While these thoughts were still turning over in his mind, Ahiru rushed forward. "And where's Fakir?" she demanded. "Is he okay? He's not still up there, is he?" She looked up at the helicopter.

"No, he jumped onto the roof of that warehouse over there," the policeman told her. "He just went through the door leading down. He'll reach the bottom in a few minutes."

"Did he seem to be alright?" Autor asked.

"From this distance it's hard to say," was the answer. "But he was walking normal, as far as I could see."

Relief and joy swelled in all of their hearts. Ahiru looked to Charon and Autor, beaming. "He's okay!" she exclaimed. "He's coming down and he's okay and we'll see him this time! We'll talk to him and take him back with us and . . . !"

She trailed off when she saw Anton and Charon looking at each other. Both men bore serious, calculating expressions. It was hard to tell who was more repulsed by the other.

"You got Fakir into this mess," Charon growled. "You tried to make him commit criminal acts for you! I'd ask if you had any idea of what you've put him and his friends through, only I know you do and you don't care."

Anton's visage was frozen. "I care only when it affects me," he said.

"And this really affects you!" Ahiru exclaimed. "I hope they don't ever let you out of prison!"

"You deserve it, after what you've done to my son," Charon snarled.

Anton's sour visage now twisted in a mocking sneer. "You aren't his father," he said. "You're nothing but a poor blacksmith who never married and never had children of your own. Fakir's true father held the power of the world in his hands. But just like his son, he was too foolish to use it."

"He was too smart to use it for the likes of you," Charon shot back.

"If Fakir had listened to me, someday he likely would have been powerful enough to overthrow me and take over my empire," Anton said. "Most would willingly kill for such opportunity."

"You're terrible at math!" Ahiru declared. "Most people are good and have integrity. It's just a few that want to do bad things!"

Anton gave a knowing nod. "Such naïveté," he said.

"Perhaps. But your view is likely colored by the company you keep, the same as Ahiru's may be." Autor stepped forward. "In any case, Fakir never wanted power to get ahead in the world."

"Unfortunately, I've learned that," Anton said. "He was a complete waste of my time. And yet, somehow I respect him. I didn't have hold of him at all; he was two steps ahead of me."

Ahiru gave a sharp nod. "Fakir's wonderful. And you're awful!" she reprimanded Anton. Then she frowned, contemplating something in her mind. At last she said, "But you have ended up making it so that we're getting Fakir back finally. So I guess I have to be grateful for that, even though I know you didn't mean to do it."

Anton was regarding her in shock at her speech. "If I had had my way, he would be dead now," he said.

Autor was not surprised, but he was angry. "Yes," he said coldly. "I'm sure he would be." He paused, then added, "If we were still in a fairytale, I'd wonder whether the Monster Raven hadn't eaten your heart. You certainly don't use it in the least."

Anton looked to him. "I must say, I'm surprised that you survived that fall, and without any permanent damage." He sneered again. "Of course, I knew all along that you were alive. Fakir was afraid you were dead. I made him believe it for certain."

Autor's expression darkened. "He'll learn the truth now," he said.

They turned away as Anton was led to the nearest squad car and loaded into the backseat. Meeting the wretch who had started all of this had infuriated all of them. All of them were hoping most sincerely that he would never get out of prison.

Ahiru clenched her fists. "He's horrible!" she cried. "Oh, he makes me so upset!"

"I don't often say things like this, but I could not see anything of value in his eyes," Autor said. "I only saw evil. And you know I don't like to throw that term around."

"I wanted to strike him," Charon admitted.

"And he deserves it," Kirsch commented as he came up to them. He had been standing back, allowing them their meeting with Anton. It had been tempting for him to go and say a few words to the miscreant, but he had not wanted to get in their way. He would find a chance to talk to Anton at the police station.

And as soon as possible, he intended to apply for the state police. That, he had determined over the course of this investigation, was where he belonged. In the future he wanted to take a far more active role in capturing criminals such as Anton Schuster. There were plenty more out there who needed to be reeled in.

For now he sighed, pushing back his hat. "He's not worth wasting our energy on."

Charon nodded. "That was why I held myself back."

"And we don't have to think about him any more right now!" Ahiru said. "Fakir's coming down!"

Autor smiled and turned to her. "You and Charon should greet Fakir first," he said. "It might be too much of a shock for him to see me at the start. Besides," he added, "you and Charon have been waiting so long for this. I can stand by for my turn."

Ahiru opened her mouth to protest. "But . . . !"

Charon silenced her with his announcement. "He's coming!"

xxxx

It only took a few minutes for Fakir to go down the warehouse steps to the ground floor and come out onto the docks, but it felt more like an hour. And the police were right there waiting as soon as he stepped out. He steeled himself, pushing back his grief.

"Are you Fakir?" queried the one in the lead.

"Yeah," Fakir said. "Anton's gang abducted me from Kinkan Town." He glanced up at the sky. The helicopter was still cruising over the area. "Are you going to be able to get that thing down?"

"One of our tech experts is going to override the autopilot and guide it down remotely," the policeman told him.

"But meanwhile, there's someone here who can't wait any longer to see you," said the second, unable to hide a smile.

They both stepped aside as a red-haired blur ran to him, her arms outstretched. "Fakir! _Fakir!_" she wailed.

Fakir's heart raced as he ran too. There were only several seconds between them, but that was too long. He caught Ahiru in his arms, clutching her tightly as he shut his eyes and trembled.

She was alright! He had wondered and worried about her for so many agonizing days and nights during this treacherous experience. That had been horrible enough, without Anton telling him about the terrible things Ahiru had been going through. And hearing that tape cassette of the torture had nearly stopped his heart. He had only recently realized that Ahiru was no longer under the surveillance of the gang, and that she had never been held captive by them, but it was nothing compared to having her right here with him and seeing that she was safe.

And of course she forgave him. He was certain of that in the way she was embracing him, crying and being mushy and not wanting to let go.

He choked back a sob. He felt just the same.


	24. Epilogue

**Notes: And thus concludes my longest fic yet, for any fandom. It's been a long time since I've done a multi-chapter crime thriller. It felt good! Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, and both!**

**Epilogue**

It was going to take a while to fully clean up from Anton's gang's crime spree. There were still stray members to catch. Other places, such as Peter's Photography, had to be investigated. The remaining storehouses for the stolen goods had to be uncovered. Once Fakir gave his statement to the police, they would need to try to find out what had happened to the bodies of Albert Heimbrecht and Fakir's first guard.

And there would be the upcoming hearings and trials for those arrested. Fakir would testify against the gang, naturally. The others would add their voices as well. There would be a lot of pain and heartache and reopened wounds when it was time to relive the horrors of the past days in court.

But for tonight, in this moment, there were only thoughts of reunion.

Ahiru had planned so many things to say to Fakir when they found him. She had imagined that she would ramble on and on about everything that had happened. Instead, for a long time she just hugged him, sobbing for sheer joy.

He was here! He was safe! After everything they had gone through, all the sorrow and anguish and worry and fear and traveling, it had come to a glorious end—the end Ahiru had longed for and prayed for and had been afraid they would never have.

And of all places, it was at the Port of Hamburg. When this had first started, which seemed so long ago now, Ahiru never could have imagined that it would all conclude this way. She had thought, she had hoped, that Fakir would be back with them within little more than a day or two. But then cold, hard reality had sunk in as the search had intensified and she had started to fear that it would never happen at all. Tonight they were so far from Kinkan, the only place she had ever known as home. But it did not matter. Fakir was back with them and she would be happy wherever they went from here.

"We've missed you so much!" she cried when she at last found her voice. "We've been so worried and looking everywhere and we kept thinking we were just about to find you and then it didn't happen after all and it was so awful!" She looked up at him, cautiously, hopefully. "You're really here now, aren't you?" she whispered.

"Unless this is just a stupid dream I'm having," Fakir said.

"I had dreams too," Ahiru said. "Some of them were bad, but some of them were so nice. . . . We found you again and everything was okay. But I always had to wake up! I started hating those dreams because they always ended and you were still gone and we didn't know how to get you back!" She trembled. "I don't want this to just be another dream."

"Idiot." Fakir gave her a fond look. "It's not a dream. It still feels like it, to me too. But this time it's not."

At the sound of a footfall they both looked up. Charon stood there, so many emotions laid bare in his tired, worn, but joyous face. Ahiru let Fakir go, allowing Charon to come and embrace him.

"My son," Charon choked out.

Fakir clutched at his father. He had tried not to believe Anton's tales, and later on had not at all, but seeing Charon alive and well and knowing that he had not been shot was making him more emotional than he had thought possible.

"Are you well?" Charon asked, concern tingeing his voice. He did not see any injuries on Fakir, but that did not mean the boy had not been beaten. He had feared so much that they would find Fakir seriously wounded or even dead. Heaven forbid! But he was alive and looked to be physically sound. The emotional damage, Charon could imagine, would linger a while even if Fakir did not consciously realize it.

"I'm okay," Fakir said. "They tried to break me. They tried to kill me. They tried to make me into one of them. But it didn't work."

"I'm proud of you," Charon told him. "I'm so proud."

". . . I didn't know if I'd ever see you again," Fakir confessed, unable to keep his voice from cracking. "You or Ahiru. And now you're both here." He glanced to Ahiru, then back to Charon.

"We never stopped looking," Charon said.

Ahiru nodded. "We wouldn't ever give up!" she said. "We couldn't. We wanted to have you back with us, where you belong!"

Fakir managed a smile but then drew a shuddering breath. "Anton tried to make me think you were being tortured and Charon had been shot," he said. "I didn't know what to believe."

Ahiru stared at him in horror at the cruelty. "It wasn't true!" she exclaimed.

"I know. I figured that out." Fakir studied them again. "But . . . even though I tried to keep myself from just blindly accepting what he'd said, it still seems unreal to see both of you here, just fine." He shook his head. "Or maybe it's just because I figured I'd never be free of the gang."

"You would've got free," Ahiru said. "I know it! You're smarter than they are! It's because of you that they're getting arrested!"

"At least I helped," Fakir said. "But you guys and the police were doing the investigating."

"And now we're all back together again!" Ahiru declared.

"Yeah." Fakir sounded far away and sad. "I just wish . . . I wish I could've seen Autor again too," he said. "Not that he'd even want to see me, after the way I treated him. But . . . without him . . . something important's missing."

Charon and Ahiru exchanged a look. Then, smiling quietly, they both stepped aside.

Fakir frowned in confusion. "Hey, what's . . ." But his voice caught in his throat. He could only stop and stare at the figure who had been standing back, silently watching the other reunions without trying to join in.

Now this had to be a dream, or a hallucination, or something that was not real. It was a product of his longing and his imagination.

Yet then . . . why were Ahiru and Charon smiling?

He took a shaking step forward. "Autor?" Suddenly his mouth was made of sandpaper. "What are you—a ghost?"

Autor raised an unsteady hand to push up his glasses. "Really, Fakir," he said with a weak smirk. "Ghosts don't need these."

"But . . . but . . ." Fakir shook his head. "The balcony. You fell. I . . . I pushed you."

"It was an accident. You never meant to do it. You had no idea the railing was going to give way." Autor's words were firm, leaving no room for argument. "And I'm alright."

Fakir swallowed hard. "You're alright?" he repeated.

Could this be real? Could Anton have lied to him all along about Autor's death and the pictures he had of the body? Had Fakir just believed it without question, as he had said himself, because of seeing Autor lying so still on the ground and already fearing he was dead?

And Autor had said it was an accident. He did not even blame Fakir.

"Look for yourself." Autor spread his arms out a bit. "I'm alive. I'm walking. I have no ill effects."

Fakir shook his head. "I'm such an idiot," he said. "About so many things." Part of him was still not sure he was fully grasping this miracle. He stepped closer. Could he dare to believe?

"I thought you were dead," he rasped. "I thought I'd killed you. All this time I've thought it."

"It's not that easy to get rid of me," Autor said. He was trying to keep his voice level, but it quavered anyway.

"And I never should have blown up at you that night," Fakir managed to say. "I thought Ahiru was sharing something with you that she didn't want me to know. I tried not to get jealous and upset, but . . . I finally just lost it."

"I'm sorry I grew angry too," Autor said, his voice quiet. "I never should have said what I did. I wish I had told you instead that we had come too far to throw everything away over a misunderstanding like that."

"I never would have listened," Fakir said. "And you don't have anything to apologize for. You didn't lose your temper until after I'd treated you like dirt. I trust you, Autor. I trust you and Ahiru both. But I wasn't acting like it."

A certain peace and joy shone in Autor's eyes at Fakir's words. He had tried repeatedly to make himself believe that Fakir did trust him and had only spoken in anger. Now, at last Fakir himself had given him the confirmation of that.

And Autor's words were fully sinking into Fakir's mind. ". . . A 'misunderstanding'?" he suddenly repeated in disbelief. "You . . . you mean that . . ."

"I forgive you, Fakir," Autor said. "I forgive you for the confrontation and I don't hold any blame over you for the accident."

A trace of a smile played on his lips. "I came all this way to bring you home. I know you could argue that it was just for Ahiru's sake, because I love her as my sister and I don't want her to be weighed down with sorrow over losing you. Of course, that is part of it. But in my anger and hurt at the very first, I convinced myself that it was all there was.

"But it isn't true. Mainly, I came because you are my friend and I don't want to lose you either."

Fakir stared at him. His words were completely sincere. Autor would never say such a thing if he did not mean it with all of his heart.

Fakir was not really a hugging sort of person. And Autor was not someone he had ever even wanted to hug, despite their odd friendship. They had generally always kept each other at arm's length, both literally and figuratively. But now all the rest of the emotions Fakir had kept bottled up throughout this nightmare were coming out.

He reached and drew the stunned Autor into a tight embrace. Yes, Autor was alive. He was alive and he did not hate Fakir for the fall. He still wanted to associate with Fakir even after their ugly argument. Not only that, he continued to consider Fakir his friend. It was far more than Fakir felt he deserved. His cup was overflowing.

Finally Autor recovered and smiled, returning the hug. Everything was going to be alright now. And the burdens on his own heart had lifted at long last. He and Fakir would get past the obstacle of their argument. They were still friends.

Ahiru looked up at Charon, who was watching the scene with a quiet joy. Then she drew her gaze higher, into the star-studded night.

"Thank You!" she whispered, rejoicing. "Thank You so much."


End file.
